Loving Liza Jane (5 page)

Startled, she jumped back and drew the string of her nightdress more securely about her. “Yes?”

“Miss Merriwether? It’s Emma Browning. Aren’t you coming down for breakfast?”

“I—I’m not quite presentable. I guess I slept longer than I’m accustomed to doing.”

“It was a long journey for you, ma’am. I would expect you need your rest. How about I bring something up to you later?”

“But I thought…”

“Don’t pay me no never mind. I have to be downright merciless with those no-good mongrels downstairs. They spend their days laborin’ on farms or at Grady’s Sawmill and their evenin’s cavortin’ and gettin’ corned, then ’spect me to feel sorry for ’em. You, however, are a guest, and I would never hand over your breakfast to my dog and cat.”

Liza thought she detected a hint of humor in the woman’s voice. So she’d been right about her after all; there was some give to Emma Browning. Perhaps she wore her thick cloak of resistance for good reason. Perchance she’d learned a few hard lessons about basic survival from her drunken father.

Liza didn’t have the heart to tell her that her keyed-up stomach might not handle food at present, so she murmured a quiet thank-you and listened for Emma’s retreating footsteps before she finished getting ready for her day.

After a hasty breakfast of cornbread and coffee, which Liza took in the dining area rather than in her room, she inquired of the other boarders about the schoolhouse.

“It doubles as a school durin’ the week and a church on Sundays. The circuit preacher makes his rounds but once a month, and the rest of the time a lay person delivers the words,” said Mr. Dreyfus, the only guest among the others seated around the long rectangular table who appeared interested enough in conversation.

“I see,” answered Liza. “I suppose I’ll need to check with Mrs. Winthrop about getting inside the school. I want to see about available supplies and equipment.”

“Place is pretty sparse,” said Mr. Dreyfus. “That was one of John Lofthouse’s complaints, that and those Hogsworth twins, Rufus Baxter, Clement Bartel…”

“No need to worry Miss Merriwether about them boys now, Mr. Dreyfus,” Emma interrupted. “School hasn’t even begun.”

It was the second time Liza had heard about the rowdy boys of Little Hickman Creek, and she found herself pushing down nervous qualms. She would find a way to deal with the behavior problems of these disorderly boys when the time came. Now, however, there were other more pressing issues.

“Where might I find the cabin I’m to live in?”

A bearded fellow, whose name she hadn’t caught, produced a hearty laugh. “You mean that old Broughton place?”

“That would be the one,” she said, stiffening at his sardonic manner.

“The place ain’t hardly worth fixin’,” he said. “It’s been years since that old coot, Broughton, died. Don’t know why his grandson even offered the place. It was in disrepair before Broughton passed on. It’s gonna take a heap o’ work fer Benjamin to make it fittin’ fer a lady.”

“Well, has he at least begun the work?” she asked, annoyed with the fellow’s honesty.

“Cain’t say.”

“Is anyone else lifting a finger to help?”

“Cain’t say one way or t’uther ’bout that neither,” he answered between bites.

“Didn’t anyone know I was coming?” she asked, frustration rising rapidly.

“Lady, we all got jobs to go to,” said a wily looking character with dirty overalls and scraggly beard. “If we was married with kids, it’d be one thing, but we ain’t. ’Spect the people with youngins oughter be the ones offerin’ the helpin’ hands.”

“What about your sense of pride and community?”

All seven men sitting around the table gave her a blank look, as if she’d just asked them exactly how many miles it was to the moon and back.

“Oh, for gracious sakes, at least you can tell me how to find the place,” she said, her patience thin as a pence.

“You’ll have to go rent a rig at Sam’s Livery if you wanna git out there,” offered Mr. Dreyfus.

“Can’t I walk there?”

The men all shared a laugh. “Shore. If ya don’t mind wadin’ up to yer thighs ’cross Little Hickman Creek.”

“Or she could walk the extra half-mile to where the bridge crosses over it,” suggested Mr. Dreyfus. “Hain’t been no bridge built yet over by where the Broughtons live.”

“The rig’ll git her there quicker,” offered yet another. “Them horses is used to the trek.”

“Where is the cabin?” Liza asked again, her nerves fraying faster than a loose thread on a homespun quilt.

“Come out to the porch and I’ll point the way,” said Emma, whose sudden return to the dining room seemed a welcome respite. “You men finish up yer breakfast so I can clean up this place,” she ordered, waiting for Liza to join her on the porch. To that, every man picked up his fork, as if the jail warden himself had issued the command.

Liza wasn’t accustomed to driving a wagon such as the one Sam Livingston had presented her with at the livery. Unlike Uncle Gideon’s fine upscale runabout back in Boston, this one had a hard seat and loose springs that made for a terribly rough ride. Several times, she’d had to grip the edge of her seat with one hand while hanging on to the reins with the other in order to keep from tumbling off. Although it was a tad better than the muddy wagon Mr. Brackett had transported her in to Little Hickman, it still felt as if her brain were rattling every time she came to a bump or a gully. Add to that the uncommon heat of noonday, and she was about as miserable as she could remember ever having been. Still, she pressed on, determined not to let a little discomfort spoil her adventure.

After taking the proper turns in the crude, two-track path that followed the contour of the land, and passing the landmarks Emma had aptly named “The Tree with Two Trunks” and “The Three Pines Standing in a Row,” she arrived at the narrow stream called Little Hickman Creek. Bringing the team to a halt at the edge of the water, she studied her surroundings. There was no denying its untarnished splendor. Rolling hills and plentiful green-blue grass covered the earth like rich, lavish carpet. Distant horses and cows grazed side by side on a neighboring rise, lending to a sense of rightness deep in her soul.

After some time, she snapped the reins to nudge the team across the water, praying that the wagon would stay upright. As if they’d negotiated the tiny river a hundred times before, they entered the water and came out on the other side with ease. Greatly relieved, she had only to round a cluster of oak trees up ahead before reaching the cabin.

As Liza had expected, Emma’s directions proved accurate. Amidst huge shaded oaks and overgrown brush, at the top of a ridge that Emma had branded Shannon’s Peak, stood a weatherworn cabin. At first glance, Liza halted the horses and merely gawked at the dilapidated spectacle. At worst, it would fall over tomorrow, or perhaps at best, she concluded sourly. She hadn’t expected pretty, but she hadn’t expected a decaying old shack either. Did they actually expect her to live in this place?

Just south and at the foot of the ridge was a neat cabin with sheds and a barn. The Broughton place, perhaps?

Urging the horses forward, they took the incline with little effort. “Whoa,” she called out as soon as they’d reached a horizontal clearing suitable for stopping the wagon. Twisting the reins around the front panel, she pulled on the brake handle, lifted her skirts, and dismounted, then made the trek the rest of the way up the hill.

Mounting two rickety porch steps and finding the front door ajar and crooked on its hinges, she entered with care, fearful of falling through loose boards.

To say she was shocked by her discovery would have been too mild. Layers of dust, no less than half an inch deep in places, covered every square inch of the three-room structure. Cracks in the floor revealed the earth below, and gaping holes, indicating long ago windows, now served as doorways to the elements, not to mention any wild creatures that had a mind to enter. Worse, excrement in various stages of deterioration covered the floor, emitting the foulest of odors. Liza gasped for air then pinched her nose shut.

On one wall of the main room stood a stone fireplace with a rusted-out kettle hanging from an inside hook, and beside that, ancient chopped wood randomly stacked in an old wood crate. In front of the fireplace, a three-legged table rested on its side, its missing leg lying nearby showing signs of having been dinner to some wild creature.

Advancing with caution, Liza bent to pick up a dilapidated chair, as if putting it right might somehow improve the overall look of the place.

Warped cupboards hung at a slant on an adjacent wall. Was this to be her kitchen? Stepping closer, she spotted a deep sink with a pump handle where she supposed the water from the well pumped through a pipe and into a makeshift drain hole. At least there was an indoor pump, she ruled. Of course, the way her luck was running, the well would likely be dry.

“Lord, forgive me, but what’s happened to my wonderful sense of peace?”

Her only response was the skittering of a tiny gray mouse on a mad rush for the open door. Liza covered her gaping mouth with both her hands to hold back a shriek and turned back toward the kitchen, shuddering.

Nearly black from soot and grime, the only evidence that the sink had once been white was the tiny tracks of a varmint, no doubt that same little creature she had just encountered, or at least his close cousin. Regardless, the very notion that she might have to share the place with rats, mice, and squirrels made her shiver despite the menacing heat.

She scoffed and decided that the only thing that could make this place less appealing would be discovering a corpse in the next room. She decided to see for herself, even if it meant risking life and limb.

“Looking for something?”

Liza whirled around at the cavernous voice and squelched a scream, shocked to see a giant of a man with jet-black hair and a matching day-old beard standing in the doorway.

“Who are you?” she managed to ask, her heart thundering.

“I think I should be the one asking the questions since you’re on my property,” he replied, prickly as a porcupine.

“Excuse me? This was to be my residence, but I can see I was merely dreaming,” she shot back. “This place isn’t fit for swine, although it would seem something has found it quite habitable.”

As if realization had suddenly struck, he crossed his arms and stared down at her. “You?”

“Pardon me?” she asked, brushing at her skirts. Besides being big, the man looked fierce, his shaded expression giving way to intense blue eyes, a stark contrast to the black hair.

“You’re—Miss Merriwether?” he asked with a hint of amusement.

“I am,” she answered, holding her head as high as her five-foot-two-inch frame allowed.

For no good reason the man started laughing, his mirth fairly filling the barren little cabin.

Rather than ask what could be so funny, Liza nursed her mounting annoyance and prayed for patience. “And who might you be, sir?”

Still laughing, it took a moment before the beast of a man settled down long enough to answer. “Name’s Benjamin Broughton, ma’am. Ben will suffice,” he said, offering a hand, which she didn’t take. “I must say I had someone entirely different pictured in my head for Miss Merriwether.”

Liza noticed that he had a slight British accent. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Broughton.”

“No need for apologies,” he hastened, finally dropping the hand he’d offered. “It’s just that, well, you’re so young and…small.”

“I am twenty-one years old,” she answered briskly, figuring it best to keep her guard up. Aunt Hettie had warned her countless times about placing her trust in total strangers.

“Twenty-one now, are you?” He bit his lip, probably to hold back another round of laughter. “Have you ever taught school?”

“Not that it is any business of yours, Mr. Broughton, but I recently finished my schooling and acquired my teaching certificate.”

“I see. So you haven’t any real experience.”

“That should be of no concern to you.”

“Ah, but it is. I have a seven-year-old daughter, you see. As a matter of fact, your name came up in conversation with my Lili just this morning.”

“In reference to what, may I ask?”

“Well, let’s just say my daughter is rather curious about you. The other teachers, well, never mind.” His eyes twinkled with merriment.

“I shall look forward to meeting her—and your wife, of course.”

In the twinkling of an eye, his expression clouded, but rather than comment, he turned his gaze on his surroundings. “Place is going to take a bit of fixing.”

“A wagonload is more like it, Mr. Broughton. It appears that you didn’t expect I’d follow through with my commitment, but here I am.”

“Yes, here you are.” One corner of his mouth angled upward.

“Mrs. Winthrop never so much as hinted that there would be a problem with my housing. Had I known the condition of this cabin, I would not have signed a teaching contract.” She gave the place another quick look.

His laugh was low. “Perhaps that’s why she didn’t tell you. Hickman needed a teacher, and you were the only one who applied.”

“I’m beginning to understand why.”

“Mind telling me what you have against staying in town?” he asked.

“Very simply, I believe it’s time I gained my independence, Mr. Broughton.”

“Ah, yes, twenty-one is well past time for that.” Again, his midnight blue eyes hinted at humor.

“In most circles, twenty-one is considered marriageable.” She felt her back go straight.

He rocked back on his heels. “Approaching spinsterhood, are we?”

Appalled, she ignored the jibe. “When do you expect to have this place ready for me?” The mere question seemed absurd in light of the amount of work it would take to refurbish the rustic cabin. As if to rub in the fact of her rueful circumstances, she kicked a piece of rubble out of her way and watched it sail across the room.

“That anxious to move in?”

“If you must know, I don’t relish the notion of having to live with a band of ill-mannered, unkempt, slothful men.”

“Hmm. I see your point, the Browning establishment.”