The Gift of a Child

Returning to the boy, she gently gathered him up in her arms and carried him into the house, all the time marveling at the loving God who had answered Rose Kellogg’s prayers.

And then her heart skipped a beat as she suddenly strangled on a new thought. Dear God, her gain might surely be some family’s worst nightmare. When she gazed once more into Alf’s peaceful face, she made a vow. Despite what tomorrow might bring, for tonight she would love him.

Chapter Two (#udc071f21-b494-5380-88e1-feb123720508)

Rose brushed straw and grass from Alf’s grubby clothes and laid a soothing hand on his forehead, brushing away his crow-black hair. She knew soon enough her father would return and questions would abound. For now, though, she treasured this time with “her boy,” as she already thought of him. “Suffer little children to come unto me,” Jesus had said. Rose lifted her eyes heavenward. “Thank You,” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears of joy.

Every now and then, Alf shifted in her arms and then, with a sigh, settled back to sleep. Rose knew she needed to think beyond the present moment. Reason cried out that she shouldn’t become too enamored of the boy. Someone who loved him must be wild with worry. Yet, for this wonderful moment, he was in her care. What could she feed him? How would she clothe him? How would he react to the bath he so desperately needed? Her thoughts raced with plans. He could sleep in the trundle bed in her room and surely friends and neighbors would help supply his immediate needs. But that meant telling them about the foundling. Sharing him. All the more reason to cherish this quiet time together before the world intruded.

She must’ve dozed because the next thing she knew, a hand had settled on her shoulder. “Rose, my dear.” Looking up, she saw her father gazing down at her with love and concern. “What have we here?”

“Oh, Papa. It’s Alf.” She moved her arm so he could read the message.

“How did this come about?” Ezra knelt and gently ran his hands over the boy’s body while Rose explained about finding the child in the barn.

“I’ve been thinking that whoever left him knew from the sign out front that you’re a doctor. Or somehow knew we would care for him.”

Her father rose to his feet. “And so we will until we locate his people. Sheriff Jensen must be notified.”

Rose’s breath caught in her chest. So long as she had forbidden herself to form those words in her brain, she had maintained hope. “Please, Papa, must we?”

“You know we must.” He sank wearily onto the divan, removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. “We do not know what extremity led someone to leave him here, nor how we might help such a person overcome the obstacles preventing them from caring for the tyke. For now, though, we will do all we can to restore this little one to health and security.” The clock chimed one, and the two sat in silence until Ezra roused himself. “We all need to sleep. In the morning, I’ll examine the boy, and we’ll figure out what to do for him until he’s returned to his family.”

Rose stifled a sob. “Papa, please, can’t we keep him? Someone purposely has entrusted him to us. He’s the answer to my prayer.”

Ezra’s voice was husky when he answered. “My dear, I have suspected your need for a child. You will be a wonderful mother...some day. But you will court greater hurt if you become overly attached to this little lad. We cannot predict how his story will end.”

“I know you’re trying to spare me heartache, Papa. But, you see—” she stood, cradling the child “—I can’t help loving him.”

Her father shrugged in dismay. “Oh, Rose” was all he managed to say.

“If you will pull out the trundle bed, Alf and I will retire. In the morning, I would appreciate your help bathing him and examining him further.”

“Of course.” Ezra squared his shoulders. “And after that, I will go to the sheriff.”

Never had Rose’s intellect so warred with her emotions. Yet she knew her father was right. If Alf was not to be hers, the separation needed to come quickly. Otherwise, she understood that with each passing day, the little boy would become more firmly grafted to her heart. Surely God would not be so cruel as to take from her this gift so wondrously bestowed.

* * *

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.”