Loving Liza Jane (9 page)

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Liza shifted on the hard seat and dabbed at a few more useless tears. Her throat felt parched and dry from all her squawking and squealing for help. A lot of good it had done her. So far the only
visitors she’d had were a sniffing dog and a squirrel or two. Even the dog meandered off, obviously disinterested in her dilemma, although she’d been desperate enough to try to convince him to run for help. “You dumb mongrel!” she had called after him when his sniffing ceased and he sauntered away.

Her emotions had run the gamut. Countless times she went from expectation to doom all in the span of a few seconds. Every time she heard the sound of distant galloping hooves or the racket of a wagon’s passing she jumped to her feet and yelled for help, only to have her hopes smashed to smithereens. More than once she’d given in to tears then just as quickly brushed them aside. It wouldn’t look good to her rescuer to find her blubbering like a helpless little fool. He’d go straight to Mrs. Winthrop and tell her the school board had failed. No, it was best to keep her head about her.

When daylight turned to dusk, however, her emotions turned inward, more weighty and reflective. She had no way of knowing what time it was, as she’d taken off her wristwatch before washing windows. What if no one found her? What if she had to spend the night in this disgusting place? Worse, two nights! Three! Perchance Miss Browning thought Liza had slipped inside the house unawares and was in her room reclining. But why would her proprietor check on her whereabouts? Liza was not the responsibility of Emma Browning.

Stories, unimaginable, formulated in her mind along with grotesque pictures of herself when at last they discovered her pathetic, rotting body. “New Teacher Found Dead in Outhouse,” the headline would read. “Funeral Pending Until Further Notice.”

And how would Aunt Hettie and Uncle Gideon feel once they learned the truth and then had to explain it? Folks would ask, “What took her, Hettie? Was it the plague? Consumption? Malaria?” Aunt Hettie would cover her mouth with the corner of her handkerchief and cry crocodile tears. “No, no, not that,” she would wail. “It was the outhouse, yes, it was. The one in the back of Little Hickman’s schoolyard!”

Liza’s lower lip quivered at the thought.

“Dear Lord, what am I to do?” she asked.

The thought struck her that she’d spent more time fretting about her hopeless set of circumstances than praying about them. Now, in addition to the fear and panic that hovered overhead, she had a fresh batch of guilt to deal with.

“Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” She began to recite aloud every verse she’d committed to memory during her Sunday school days, thankful now for the persistent Mrs. Grunthum, who’d forever looked down her long, pointed nose unhappily if anyone dared come to class unprepared.

Patience is a virtue. The silly idiom came back as a cruel reminder, but why did the face of Benjamin Broughton have to accompany it?

“Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him.” The memorized passage rolled off her lips. “I’m trying, Lord, but this is Liza, your naturally impatient child, the one who often thinks she knows so much until You show her the error of her ways. I know You have a plan for me, Father, but does it have to include sitting in this outhouse?”

Patience is a virtue. There it was again. She folded her arms and made a sound of disgust when she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. As Hickman’s new teacher, she should have known about Chaucer’s writings. Why did it have to take a burly, albeit handsome, farmer to set her straight?

She’d heard that the circuit preacher was riding into town next Sunday. If she was still alive next week, she intended to arrive early enough to sit in the front row. That should tell Mr. Broughton that she took her faith seriously. The fact that she’d mistaken an ancient idiom for a passage of Scripture was insignificant. After all, God knew her heart. What did it matter what some striking Englishman thought of her?

As the minutes turned to hours, Liza leaned her back against the hard wall. Drowsy in spite of her state of affairs, she allowed her eyes to close. The rain had long quit, and with it came a stillness, the only sounds she heard being the distant hoot of an owl or the snap of a branch overhead. If she were back at Emma’s house in bed she would have enjoyed the serenity of the moment. But now the silence merely haunted her.

She must have temporarily dozed, for she found herself jumping to alertness at the sound of someone’s approach. It seemed paramount to yell for help, but on the other hand, the rabble-rousers responsible for getting her into this fix just might be the ones drawing closer. Was locking her in this place just the first step to what they planned to do with her once nightfall came?

Fear mixed with her blood, sending quivery chills up and down her body. She swallowed down a hard lump and took a settling breath. “Who’s there?” she said in a voice that hardly qualified as a whisper. Strange how she’d screamed and squawked all afternoon in the daylight, but now that night had fallen, an all-new feeling of dread had come to make its home in her.

“Is anyone in here?” came a male voice. A strangely familiar voice at that.

“Yes.” Liza felt hope rise up in her chest.

“Liza? Miss Merriwether?”

It was him! Or was she growing delusional?

“Yes,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and hopping up and down, as if there was a need to let him know she was inside. Suddenly she was pounding on the door. “Let me out, let me out. Hurry!”

“Well, just a minute. Hold your horses.”

“What? Hold my horses? I’ll have you know I’ve been in here for hours on end. And you have the nerve to tell me to hold my horses?”

Even over the sounds of his walking around the shed two, three, four times, she heard his low chuckle. How he could even think of laughing at a time like this was beyond her. “I have to get this rope untied,” he explained, his voice too calm. She wanted to scream at him to work faster. Oh, for a breath of fresh, clean air.

It wasn’t until the door opened and she looked into the face of her rescuer that she remembered what she must look like. She’d come out in the drenching rain; her dress had soaked clear through to her skin; her hair had fallen away from its tight little knot; her eyes were no doubt swollen from hours of on-and-off crying spells. Oh, what must he think?

But none of that mattered one iota, for as soon as she laid eyes on him she flew into his arms.

Hey, what’s this?” Ben asked, putting an awkward arm around the hysterical woman.

Ben couldn’t explain the relief he felt at finding Miss Merriwether. He’d spent a full hour walking through town, peeking inside windows, even knocking on a few doors to ask if anyone had seen her. But no one had. When mild concern evolved into outright worry, he began to pray that God would keep her safe wherever she was.

About the time he had decided to walk over to Sheriff Murdock’s office and report her missing, he determined to have one last look at the schoolhouse. He’d made a thorough search inside the building earlier, but he hadn’t thought to look around the yard, certainly not in the outhouse.

The storm had given way to a clear, starry night, and with it, a bright moon to shed an evening glow—enough so that he’d been able to see the rope tied securely around one of the little shacks out back, the one marked Girls. At first he’d thought the rope was there to keep people out. For all he knew the school board had ordered it closed for maintenance. Maybe they planned to move it to a new location. But if that were the case, why hadn’t someone locked the other one up as well?

When he’d drawn nearer and detected a sound inside, he knew he’d found the elusive Miss Merriwether, particularly when she started ranting at him to hurry things along. Relief mingled first with amusement, then confusion, and finally disgust. Who would do such a thing?

“Are you all right?” he asked, momentarily putting her away from him.

“No,” she exclaimed, going right back into the circle of his arms. “I thought I was going to die in there. I even imagined the news-papers reporting my death. And then my funeral. And then poor Uncle Gideon and Aunt Hettie.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” She sniffed and wiped her nose on his shirt.

She was a sight to behold with her hair having fallen into total disrepair, her dress hanging in a mass of wrinkles, her eyes and nose red and swollen, and the whole of her looking about as attractive as any female he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Do you have any idea who locked you inside that thing?” he asked. He didn’t quite know how to react to this woman in his arms. It’d been so long since he’d held one.

“No, but if I did I’d have their hides hanging on the nearest clothesline.”

At last she pulled away from him and straightened her skirt as best she could. He guessed she’d been sitting on it for the better share of the day.

“Any ideas at all?” he persisted.

“I told you, no. I couldn’t see a thing. I tried to find a peephole or a crack, but they’ve sealed that place up good and tight. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if my lack of oxygen in there would steal away my life before I had the chance to starve or languish from thirst.”

He found himself smiling at her colorful embellishment. “I don’t think that would have happened. There are air vents right overhead,” he told her, pointing. “See those openings?”

Refusing to look where he pointed, she placed both hands on her hips. “It is quite clear that you do not share in my plight even one little bit. That was a most uncomfortable situation to be in, Mr. Broughton.”

Ah, so now it was back to formalities. That was fine with him. Besides, he had no business looking at the schoolteacher in any way but friendly. Nor did he have any business remembering what she’d felt like in his arms mere moments ago.

“I’m sure it was and I sympathize entirely, truly, I do.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

He straightened his face. “You amuse me, that’s all.”

“Humph.” She turned and started to walk, so he followed after. “I know there were more than one.”

“More than one?” he asked, confused.

“Perpetrator,” she clarified. When he caught the calculating tone in her voice, he knew the weaker side of Miss Merriwether had suddenly vanished.

“Well, that’s something to go on. It was a group effort then.”

She stopped and stared at him. “You aren’t laughing at me, are you?”

“Absolutely not. I just find it ironic that you haven’t even had your first day of school yet, and already there are problems. Are you sure—?”

“Don’t even suggest I go back to Boston, Mr. Broughton. I am here to stay. At least for the year. That is what I agreed to when I signed the contract, and I shall not go back on my word.”

With that, she resumed walking, holding her head high. He hurried to catch up.

“That’s good. You’ll need that stubborn streak running through you when you meet up with some of your students. I’ve heard stories that would curl your toes.”

“Well, I’ve had about all the toe curling I can stand for one day, thank you. I believe I’ll go back to the house and have a nice hot bath.”

“Not so fast,” he said, taking her by the arm. “You and I are going to pay a visit to the sheriff’s office first.” He started hauling her in another direction.

“What?” She stopped dead in her tracks and yanked her arm from his grasp. “I will not report this incident.”

“Why not? Pranksters played a nasty trick on you. If you don’t report it, they’ll think they’ve won. They’ll stop at nothing to wear you down, run you out of town. It’s happened to three other teachers in the last three years.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen to me. And I’m not going to report this to anyone. I happen to think that if I report it, they’ll get an even bigger laugh. Not only will it make me the laughingstock of Little Hickman, but they’ll have the satisfaction of knowing the sheriff isn’t going to spend more than five minutes on a silly little incident like this.”

“Silly? Aren’t you the one who was crying hysterically just moments ago and soaking the front of my shirt?” He pointed to the wet splotch in the middle of his chest.

She looked only a little embarrassed. “Well, I’ve come to my senses,” she said, sticking out her pert little chin and resuming her steps.

“Really.”

“Yes. You and I and—those hooligans—are the only ones who know about this incident, and I wish for it to stay that way, Mr. Broughton.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” he argued, matching her gait. “A crime was committed.”

“That was no crime. It was a childish prank. I intend to find out who was responsible, but I won’t bring the law into it.”

“And how do you expect to find out?” he asked, growing irritated with her stubborn streak.

“I haven’t quite determined that, but I will. Give me time.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Emma Browning met them on the front porch, her worried expression quickly replaced by a wholehearted smile. “Oh, Miss Merriwether, I was so concerned about you. Where have you been? And look at you!” Emma held a sleepy Molly in her arms. A wide-eyed Lili stood beside her.

“I’ve been at the school,” Liza said.

“My goodness. Since this morning?” Emma exclaimed. “I don’t think the school board expects you to spend every waking minute there. You must be tired and hungry.”

Liza smiled at Emma’s constant chatter. “I’m perfectly fine, Miss Browning, although I am a tad hungry and thirsty.”

“Why o’ course you are. It will only take me a moment to warm some stew.” She handed Molly over into Ben’s arms, then gave Liza a stern look. “You’ll call me Emma.”

Liza smiled. “All right then.”

That settled, Emma hurried inside, leaving the rest of them standing on the porch.

“Papa, is this really her?” Lili whispered, tugging on his arm, her gaze traveling from him to Liza and back to him.

“It is. Miss Merriwether, meet my older daughter, Lili, and my younger one, Molly.” Molly had snuggled into the curve of her father’s neck, quite disinterested in the newcomer.