She didn’t dare touch the leg that had been damaged. When the child tried to sit up, his hands reaching toward the injury, she let out a squawk of protest.
“Nurse!” she called, cradling Petey against her chest. “Come quickly! I need help!”
A woman in a blue dress rushed in. She took one look at Isabelle and ran back out. Isabelle continued to hold Petey, who wailed and thrashed against her, for what seemed hours until a man hurried in. He held a syringe, and without a word he threw back the covers, lifted Petey’s nightshirt, and jabbed the needle into the child’s hip. Petey cried out, causing Isabelle’s heart to constrict, and then the child relaxed into her arms.
Gently Isabelle lowered him onto the pillow. Tears impaired her vision as she smoothed the blanket beneath the little boy’s chin. She looked at the man, whose gaze remained on Petey’s face. Finally he looked at Isabelle. Despite his abrupt treatment, she saw sympathy in his eyes.
“That’ll help him sleep. Sleep is good medicine,” he said, his voice kind.
Isabelle swallowed. “He said his foot hurt. What . . . what do I tell him if he wakes and says that again?”
The man touched Petey’s head. “Tell him the truth. Children are resilient. He’ll take it better than most men, I’d wager.” With a brief, sad smile in her direction, he left the room.
Isabelle sat back in her chair, watching Petey’s once-more-still form. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Fingers of sunlight crept around the edges of the window shade, teasing Isabelle awake. She stretched, grimacing, her back stiff from sitting up all night. Slowly she opened her eyes, blinking as her vision adjusted to the light. Her gaze drifted from the ceiling to the head of Petey’s bed and then to Petey himself. His eyes were open, watching her.
She stumbled to the edge of the bed and touched his tangled hair. “Petey. You’re awake.” Tears tightened her throat, deepening her voice.
He nodded. “Yeah. Been layin’ here quiet so’s not to bother you. You okay?”
The tears came again. In a hospital bed, one leg cut off above the ankle, there was Petey, asking if she was okay. What a sweet child.
Smoothing his hair, she assured him, “I’m just fine. How . . . how about you?”
He wrinkled his nose. “My foot’s really hurtin’. C’n ya pull the covers back? They feel heavy.”
Isabelle’s chin quivered. “Petey, about your foot . . .”
The child’s bright eyes were wide and innocent. How could she bear to tell him his foot was gone? Yet she had to—he had to know. As gently as possible, she explained what the trolley had done. “Petey, do you understand?”
Petey scowled, his little forehead crinkled. “It’s cut clean off? The whole foot?”
She nodded, tears stinging. “I’m afraid so.”
“But it hurts. I c’n feel it.”
Stroking his hair, she nodded. “I know. The doctor said your body doesn’t quite understand the foot is gone. That’s why it feels like it hurts.”
He stared at her, his lips puckering. “But it’s really gone?”
Isabelle nodded.
“Lemme see.”
Sucking in a breath of fortification, Isabelle folded back the blankets.
Petey propped himself up on his elbows and stared for a long time at the bandaged stump, his big blue eyes unblinking. Finally he sighed and slumped back against the pillow. “Yep. It’s gone all right.”
She waited for him to cry in anguish or rail in unfairness or scream in anger. But in his familiar little-boy voice, he said, “Think I c’n get a peg leg?”
She jerked back, stunned. “A . . . a what?”
“Peg leg. Seen a man at the docks with one. He strapped it where his foot used to be. He said a fish bit his foot off, but I didn’t b’lieve him. Still, that peg leg . . . that was somethin’. Can I get one, too?”
A peg leg. That’s all he was concerned about. Get a peg leg, strap it on, and walk again. This child was amazing. Isabelle cupped his pale cheek. “Petey, whatever you want, I’ll be sure you get it, I promise you that. I’ll get you the finest peg leg ever.”
He smiled weakly. “Thanks.” Suddenly he scowled, but the expression seemed thoughtful. “You don’t gotta worry. I’ll be okay, y’know. Jesus said so.”
Isabelle’s eyes flew wide. “Jesus . . . said so?”
Petey nodded. “He come to me when I was layin’ in the street. He said not to worry—I’d be okay. Said I’d be walkin’ an’ jumpin’ in no time. So you don’t worry, neither.”
Too stunned to reply, Isabelle merely nodded.
Petey’s eyes slid closed. “I’m tired.” This time, when he drifted off, his whistle-buzz snore filled the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mattie
Rocky Crest Ranch
April, 1903
As Matt and Clancy ambled toward the big house together, Matt’s stomach growled, causing Clancy to let out an amused snort.
“Don’t know why you’re so hungry. Hardly worked ya a’tall today. Why, you never left the barn!”
Matt stared at him. “Hardly worked . . . ?” He waved a hand toward the sheep barn. “Shearing an’ bundling is hardly workin’?”
Clancy chortled, his face crinkling with mirth. He threw his arm over Matt’s shoulders. “Now, no need to get your feathers all a-ruffled. I was joshin’ ya. You earned your keep today—that’s for certain.” He grinned, showing yellowed, crooked teeth. “But we won’t have another day like that’n for a year, an’ next time you’ll know what to expect, so it’ll seem easier.”
Matt puffed his cheeks and blew. “I can see why you only shear once a year. It’s a chore wrestlin’ those woollies.”
“We only shear once a year so’s there’s a good coat waitin’,” Clancy clarified. Then he chuckled. “Did ya see ol’ José with that one cantankerous ewe? I think at one point the ewe was shearin’ the hair off José’s head instead of the other way around!”
The two men shared a laugh at José’s expense as they entered the back door, which led into the kitchen. They found Mr. Harders and his son, Jackson, seated together at the planked trestle table, and Matt’s laughter immediately died. Something in the men’s faces brought an immediate rush of worry.
Apparently Clancy had the same sense of foreboding, because he put his hands on his wiry hips and said, “All right, let’s have it. Someone’s either gettin’ buried or married—but either way it ain’t good news.”
Mr. Harders shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips. “Clancy . . .” The single word held a gentle admonition. He looked at his son, and Jackson turned to face Matt. Matt felt a cold sweat break out over his body. The bad news—whatever it was—involved him. Was it Jenks? His quivering knees didn’t seem sturdy enough to keep him upright. He took two shaky steps forward and clung to the back of a chair.
“What is it?”
Jackson took a deep breath. “Matt, there was an accident in Shay’s Ford last Friday. Petey slipped beneath a trolley car. His right foot was severed.”
Two opposite emotions swept Matt at the same time—relief that Jenks hadn’t caught up with him and remorse for Petey’s suffering. Then a third struck—guilt for bringing Petey to Shay’s Ford. He pulled out the chair and sank into it. “Will he be all right?”
“The surgeon is hopeful, but there are no guarantees.”
Matt lowered his head, sorrow weighing him down. Oh, Lord, I shoulda left him in St. Louis. I know Dave was mean to him, but even if he had a few welts, at least he’d be whole. A hand clamped onto his shoulder. He looked up into Clancy’s concerned face.
“Don’t you be thinkin’ you’re the one who brung harm to that boy.” The crusty tone warmed Matt’s heart. “No way you could’ve seen this comin’. It’s just . . . one of them things.”
Matt nodded, but inside he rebelled. It wasn’t just “one of them things”—it was wrong. A little boy should have two good legs for running and playing. And a litt
le boy shouldn’t ride on a trolley, unattended. Petey needed a home. A permanent home.
“Who’ll be takin’ care of him when he’s out of the hospital?”
“The Rowleys plan to take him in. Their hired girl, Isabelle, has been taking turns with Mrs. Rowley staying at the hospital.”
Jackson’s low voice calmed Matt’s racing heart. “When he’s released, he won’t be selling newspapers anymore.”
Jackson removed a piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Matt realized it was a clipping from a newspaper. Jackson went on. “The newspaper reported the accident. I can only hope this has awakened some people to the real danger faced by our street children. Maybe now they’ll be willing to get involved.”
Anger billowed in Matt’s chest. “Well,” he growled, “as far as I’m concerned, they’re a few days too late.” Pushing out of the chair, he stormed outside.
Molly
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903
“Gangrene.”
When the surgeon who had operated on Petey’s leg summoned Isabelle and Aaron into the hallway for an update, she had sensed something was wrong. But the single word stabbed Isabelle’s heart with fear. “Is it bad?”
Dr. Carolton frowned as if the question were foolish. “There’s no such thing as good gangrene. It’s quite serious. If the child were stronger, better nourished, perhaps . . .” The man’s voice drifted off, and Isabelle understood his frustration. “I’ll have to amputate another few inches higher, to remove the diseased tissue, but I cannot guarantee the child will survive the operation.”
Isabelle’s legs went weak. Only Aaron’s fingers, clamped around her elbow, kept her upright. “And if you don’t operate?”
“The infection will certainly kill him.”
Isabelle drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. “Then you must operate.”
The doctor nodded. “As soon as the operating room is readied, orderlies will return for the boy.” He strode away.
Isabelle and Aaron stood silently outside Petey’s door. Isabelle’s chin quivered, but she clamped her jaw against it. When she had regained control, she said, “I want to return to Petey. He shouldn’t be alone.”
“Of course.” Aaron escorted Isabelle into Petey’s room. He took the single chair in the corner, and she sat on the edge of the bed. The child’s flushed face, beaded with perspiration, disturbed Isabelle. A foul odor hung in the air, a result of the infection that had taken hold of the little boy’s leg.
Leaning his elbows on his knees, Aaron spoke in a husky tone. “Are you going to be all right, Isabelle?”
Isabelle felt a sad smile on her lips. “The morning after the first surgery, Petey asked me the same thing. There he lay, small and fragile, his foot gone, and he asked about me.” She released a long sigh. “Aaron, this week has been . . . a growing time, I suppose.”
Aaron’s brow creased. “How so?”
Their whisper-soft voices, an attempt to avoid disturbing the sick child, gave an intimacy to the sterile setting. Aaron’s attentive gaze, his fingers linked as though he were in prayer, brought a flutter to Isabelle’s heart.
Rising from the bed, she crossed to the small table in the corner and picked up her Bible. “I’ve had little to do this week besides read. I’ve read to Petey, and while he’s slept, I’ve read to myself. There’s so much here, Aaron, so much I didn’t know. . . .”
Aaron’s gaze pinned to hers, his blue-green eyes tender.
“I read Psalm 139, the one you told me about. There’s a verse that says God’s hand is laid upon me, that He has beset me behind and before. This week, here with Petey, I’ve finally sensed His presence. And . . .” She pinched her brow, struggling to put into words all of the emotion of the past week. “As I’ve watched over Petey—even when he wasn’t aware of my being here—it made me think of God watching me when I wasn’t aware of Him.”
Aaron offered a slow nod, his eyes shining.
Bolstered by his silent understanding, she continued. “When I read the message from Jackson Harders that said all the documents Randolph had were authentic, I . . . accepted it. I didn’t mourn it. And I believe God gave me the strength to accept it.”
She lowered her gaze once more to the Bible. Swallowing, she went on. “I’ve been so unaware of God, but I want to change. I want to know Him, the way you and your parents know Him.” Raising her head, she met Aaron’s gaze. “What . . . what do I do, Aaron, to truly know God?”
To her amazement, tears welled in Aaron’s eyes. He clasped her hands, curling them around the Bible. “My dear Isabelle, you’ve taken the first step. You’ve said right out loud that you need Him. Now all you have to do is ask His son, Jesus, to come into your heart.”
She tipped her head. “It’s really that simple?”
Aaron nodded. “For us, it is. Jesus did all the work when He died on the cross to take the place of our sins. When you ask Him into your heart, He’ll come. That makes you one of God’s children. Then He’ll be with you every day on earth, and when you die, you’ll go live with Him in heaven.”
Yearning made her chest ache. “Oh, I want that, Aaron.”
“Then ask.”
His sweet voice, deep with emotion, spurred her response. Slipping to her knees, she closed her eyes and pressed the Bible to her heart. “Jesus, come into my heart. Be with me from this day forward.”
When she opened her eyes, she found Aaron kneeling before her, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Welcome to God’s family, Isabelle,” he said.
Warm tears splashed down her cheeks, but she laughed. “Oh, Aaron, what wonderful words! For the last weeks I’ve wondered . . . where do I belong? I am not truly a Standler. I’m not a Gallagher. But now . . . I’m God’s child.”
Without a word, Aaron reached out and embraced her, pulling her firm against his chest. She nestled there, content, for several seconds. When he released her, there was something in his eyes that sent her heart pattering.
“Isabelle, I have something for you.” He rose, lifting her to her feet. Then he slipped his hand inside his shirt and withdrew an envelope. “Jackson sent this for you earlier today. It’s a message from your father’s lawyer.”
Isabelle clapped her hand to her breast. Her heart thumped mightily, and her mouth went dry. Her gaze bounced from the envelope to Aaron’s eyes. She placed the Bible on the table, then reached with trembling hands for the envelope. Slowly she withdrew a letter and read aloud.
“ ‘Mr. Harders, thank you for contacting me concerning the inheritance of Miss Isabelle Standler. Although Miss Standler was never formally adopted by Reginald Standler, he loved the child as his own and planned for her future. An account of—’ ” Isabelle nearly dropped the paper when she read the dollar amount—“ ‘was established, which was intended to come into her possession on her twentieth birthday.
“ ‘In the event of her foster parents’ untimely demise, Mr. Standler allowed a provision for early retrieval. Following are instructions on withdrawing these funds. Please advise Miss Standler to contact me, and I shall see that she receives access to the account. Sincerely, Mr. Emery Murray.’ ”
Isabelle raised her gaze to meet Aaron’s.
He shook his head, releasing a low whistle. “So now you know . . . you are Molly Gallagher. But the Standlers loved you as their own.”
Isabelle nodded. In her heart, she’d already known these things. Her thoughts raced. She was born Molly Gallagher, but even so the man she loved as Papa had provided for her. She was an orphan but was not penniless. With the fund Papa had established, she had the financial means to return to Kansas City and reestablish her old life.
She looked again at the dollar amount printed on the page, and she suddenly felt as light as air. Lifting her smile to Aaron, she said, “I must lay claim to this fund immediately.”
“You . . . you’ll be leaving, then?” His voice sounded pinched.
She touched his arm and gave a quick s
hake of her head. “I must have these funds to pay for Petey’s hospital stay. And I must buy him a peg leg. I promised.” Aaron’s puzzled expression made her smile. “Then we’ll use these funds to help the street children.
We’ll build an orphanage, or a school, or whatever we need.”
Moving to Petey, she caressed the child’s pale cheek. “We’ll use the money to fight for the children, Aaron.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Maelle
Shay’s Ford, Missouri
April, 1903
Cheerful purple crocus and yellow daffodils greeted Maelle from yards that were throwing off their winter brown and turning green beneath the bright spring sunshine. Easter was just around the corner, and even the flowers seemed to recognize it was time for new birth.
From high on the wagon seat, Maelle whistled, observing neat houses with shutters and flower boxes, cobblestone streets, and neatly painted businesses as she rolled toward the hospital. Shay’s Ford was a pleasant community, she acknowledged. The kind of place it would be nice to call home.
Her whistle ceased. Home? Maelle’s home was as peculiar as her attire—a big box on wooden wheels. If she pressed her memory, she could barely recall her home back in Ireland. A tiny cottage with a mud fireplace, where stew bubbled in a pot and Da’s laughter shook the rafters. But try as she might, so much of her early life refused to be remembered. How she longed to recall Ma’s sweet smile, Mattie’s unruly hair, Molly’s dimples. But it was so long ago, and the memories were faded. She wished she had photographs to remind her of the faces and the place. But those kinds of wishes were pointless.
Only one photograph existed of the place that lived in Maelle’s memory, and she’d given it to Mattie all those years ago. In her travels across the United States with Richard, aiming the camera at individuals and groups of people, Maelle had often hoped to look through the viewfinder and recognize Mattie or Molly. She had imagined the reunion so many times she had it memorized—she could hear the laughter, feel the hugs, see the distortion of vision due to tears of joy. She had promised Mattie she would never stop looking for him, and she hadn’t. Everywhere she went, she looked. And looked. But the search had proved futile.
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