Loving Liza Jane

  What people are saying about Loving Liza Jane & Sharlene MacLaren

  With her usual wit and passion, Shar introduces her readers to Liza Jane Merriwether. The story of Liza is one of determination and grace, told with delightful attention to detail and emotion. Shar’s readers will love this first book and look forward to reading more from the Little Hickman Creek series.

  —Jean E. Syswerda

  Former Editor & Associate Publisher, Zondervan Bibles

  Co-author of the best-selling book, Women of the Bible

  Once again, Sharlene MacLaren has written a well-crafted story with very real characters whose journeys are far from perfect, but full of hope, faith, and love for God. Readers will identify with the mistakes the zealous, lovable, yet obstinate, Liza Jane Merriwether makes along the way. And they’ll sympathize with Benjamin Broughton, the English farmer, who tries to manage his property, care for his motherless daughters, and guard his heart against the willful new schoolteacher.

  A colorful lot of characters, the simple, kindly folk of Little Hickman Creek, Kentucky, will endear themselves to MacLaren’s readers, luring them to the next book in the series. Loving Liza Jane introduces not only the small, spitfire teacher and the tall, handsome widower, but a host of other fascinating and amusing individuals. Simply put, Loving Liza Jane is the key that unlocks the door to more adventure.

  —Mary Hawkins

  Author of the 4-in-1 inspirational romance,

  Australian Outback, and the bestseller, Australia

  A hero reminiscent of Lancelot and a heroine as stubborn as Annie Oakley make Loving Liza Jane an engaging romance.

  —Ane Mulligan

  Reviewer for noveljourney.blogspot.com

  Loving Liza Jane, the first installment in MacLaren’s Little Hickman Creek Series, is a sweet and involving story of two people so determined to do God’s will that they sometimes forget to seek what it might be. The relationships are touching and deep, the characters are believable and inviting, and the town of Little Hickman feels like home.…Loving Liza Jane is a great choice for any lover of romance or historicals.

  —Roseanna White

  Senior Reviewer, Christian Review of Books

  When I first received Loving Liza Jane, I thought it would be just another prairie romance novel….However, this was not the typical story at all, and though it contained the basic sketch of characters, it strayed from the usual outline. I enjoyed the variation from typical plot scenarios and experienced more than a few surprises in this one!

  The author made this novel shine….Wonderful story! I can’t wait for the sequel!

  —Michelle Sutton (pen name)

  “writing truth into fiction”

  http://edgyinspirationalauthor.blogspot.com

  Loving Liza Jane is a delightful romantic excursion into “yesteryear,” a story that reads like Anne of Green Gables meets Laura Ingalls Wilder.

  —Kevin Lucia

  www.titletrakk.com

  Publisher’s note: This novel is a work of fiction. References to real events, organizations, or places are used in a fictional context. Any resemblances to actual persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Loving Liza Jane

  First in the Little Hickman Creek Series

  To contact the author, Sharlene MacLaren:

  e-mail: smac@chartermi.net

  website: www.sharlenemaclaren.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0-88368-816-8 • ISBN-10: 0-88368-816-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  © 2007 by Sharlene MacLaren

  1030 Hunt Valley Circle

  New Kensington, PA 15068

  www.whitakerhouse.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  MacLaren, Sharlene, 1948–

  Loving Liza Jane / Sharlene MacLaren.

  p. cm. — (Little Hickman Creek series)

  Summary: “Feisty Liza Jane Merriwether discovers that God is the ultimate Matchmaker when she moves to Little Hickman Creek, Kentucky, to become the new schoolteacher; she meets a widowed farmer who falls in love with her, but he has already sent for a mail-order bride”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-88368-816-8 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-88368-816-6 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Teachers—Fiction.

  2. Widowers—Fiction. 3. Mail order brides—Fiction. 4. Kentucky—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3613.A27356L68 2007

  813’.6—dc22

  2006100116

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system—without permission in writing from the publisher. Please direct your inquiries to permissionseditor@whitakerhouse.com.

  Dedication

  To Kendra and Krista,

  Precious daughters,

  Cherished friends.

  Chapter One

  August, 1895

  Twenty-one-year-old Eliza Jane Merriwether, better known as Liza, had never been one for self-pity. No sir, if things didn’t go her way, which often they did not, she simply sucked in a deep breath, held her head high, gathered up her skirts, of which there were many, and marched forward, gaining fortitude with every step.

  This, however, took the cake, tested her endurance, if not her dwindling courage, to its very limits. More than once, she’d had to ask God if He was sure about the direction He was sending her, and every time she received some form of affirmation. Still, she couldn’t help but speculate.

  The hot August sun beat down on Liza’s shoulders, its relentless heat seeming to burn a hole straight through the material of her cotton gown. Dust gathered on her brow and eyelids, the grime mixing with beads of perspiration that she fruitlessly dabbed at with her now soiled handkerchief.

  Just where was this town of Little Hickman, Kentucky? And how many more bumps along the dirt track, which the driver had taken the liberty of calling a road, must she submit herself to before reaching her destination? If there was one rut, there had to be at least a million, every one into which she was certain Mr. Brackett had managed to drop a wheel.

  “Hang onto yer hat, little lady,” called the driver as they flew over another bump. Too late, Liza grabbed for her fancy bonnet, only to watch it fly to the dusty earth below, turn over onto its side, and roll like a wheel into the nearest mud hole.

  “My hat! Stop, Mr. Brackett. I need my hat.”

  “Sorry, ma’am; ain’t got ’nough time to go back. ’Sides, the thing is flat-out ruin’t by now.” His words were lost to the hot, driving wind, as he veered into the next rocky bend, making no effort whatever to slow down his rig, if anything, encouraging his team of draft horses to gather more speed.

  “What? Well, I never! I purchased that hat at Wentworth’s Department Store in Boston along with this fine dress just before departing. Surely you can imagine how much I paid for it.” Of course, she wouldn’t mention the fact that after days of wearing it she would have liked to have dispensed with it altogether.

  Mr. Brackett inspected her, his beady eyes narrowing to mere dots on his round, bulbous face. His jowls waggled with every bounce of the springs beneath his rotund body; and although Liza tried not to stare at him, she couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled an overgrown ox.

  “Lady, where we’re headin’ you ain’t gonna be needin’ no highfalutin’ hat,” he said with a laugh just before slowing the horses’ pace. The one called Puddin’ snorted appreciatively and threw his head sideways.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your opinions to yourself,” she said, sitting ramrod straight to accentuate the statement.

  Mr.
Brackett’s bulging arms flopped to and fro as he handled the reins. Throwing her a swaggering, mostly toothless grin, he said, “I’ll keep that in mind, miss.” To this, he laughed so hard and loud that spittle flew from his mouth and with it a shot of the foulest breath she’d ever whiffed.

  Liza took advantage of the next several miles of quietude Mr. Brackett afforded her by glancing out over the colorful landscape, grasslands dotted with wildflowers, low mountains in the distance, an outlying pasture accommodating a sprinkling of cows and horses, a ramshackle barn, and a deserted meadow that looked to have once been farmland.

  To say her trip from the Cape had been an easy one would have been an outright lie. Still, she couldn’t deny it’d been interesting; certainly, it warranted a newsy letter to Aunt Hettie and Uncle Gideon upon her arrival. Of course, she would leave out the parts about sleeping next to a grizzled old man on the overcrowded train, refusing to eat one more sliver of beef jerky and cold beans offered by Mr. Brackett when there was nothing else to choose from, and coming upon a rattler when she’d run into the bushes to relieve herself. Aunt Hettie would have a conniption fit if Liza were to enlighten her on every aspect of her journey.

  Why she’d thought it necessary to purchase a new outfit for her travels was beyond her. Everything was all but ruined; add to that her now missing hat. She’d so wanted to arrive in Little Hickman making a good impression. Oh, she’d make an impression all right, but it would be far from good if folks were prone to make judgments based on appearance. They would want a proper, genteel lady to teach their children, not someone completely disheveled, as she now obviously was. Well, bother! They’d hired her to be the new teacher sight unseen. They would just have to accept what arrived.

  “How much farther is it, Mr. Brackett?” she asked, fanning her face with the fingers of her long white glove. She’d long ago realized the futility in wearing such impractical articles of clothing in the sweltering August temperatures.

  “How many times you gotta ask that question, miss? I done told you we’d be there by nightfall.”

  “Well, pardon me, sir, but it is going on six o’clock, and I have not yet come across one sign that would indicate we are nearing our destination. How do I know you’re even driving in the right direction?”

  He chuckled quietly. “You won’t be seein’ any sign until we’re near on top o’ the place. As for whether I’m goin’ in the right die-rection, l’il woman, I ’spect you’ll have to trust me on that.”

  “My name is Miss Merriwether, and I’ll thank you to address me as such,” she said as her temper flared in a decidedly unchristian manner. “Since I am Little Hickman’s new schoolteacher, I should think you would show me a bit more respect.”

  He snorted loudly. “Oh, you got my respect all right. But you’ll need a lot more ’n that to make do as Hickman’s new schoolmarm.”

  Liza twisted the fingers of her soiled white glove and shot an upward glance at the man beside her. “What do you mean by that?”

  He snickered before swatting a pesky fly away from his face with one of his giant hands. “Ya ain’t the first teacher Hickman’s hired, and ya won’t be the last.” He spat on the side of the road, and Liza wrinkled up her nose at his uncouth behavior. “Hickman’s hired three in the last three years.”

  “Three?”

  “Yep.” Loosening up on the reins a bit, he rested his beefy elbows atop his knees before exploding with another round of laughter. “I guess that ole biddy, Mrs. Winthrop, failed to inform you ’bout Hickman’s history of teachers.”

  “History?” Something told her she shouldn’t have voiced the one-word question.

  Mr. Brackett took her in with a sweeping look. “Why, a pretty little thing like you oughta know you cain’t handle a bunch of ruffian boys. Hellions they are, yes indeed. There’s Clement Bartel for starters; he’s mean and nasty that one. Then there’s Gus Humphrey, Sam and Freddie Hogsworth—twins they are, and Rufus Baxter, just to name a few. Troublemakers, ever’ last one of ’em. They done run off the first woman-teacher Hickman Creek ever had, and the two men that follered her. Gone—like the dust off a used saddle.

  “Guess it don’t make no never mind whether the Board o’ Education hires a woman or a man; you’ll be gone ’for the rooster crows on the third mornin’. Yep, you got yer work cut out for ya, little wom—er—Miss Merriwether.”

  Liza swallowed down a lump the size an apple and feigned nonchalance. “Well, I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as you’re letting on, Mr. Brackett.” Then tucking a stubborn strand of loose golden brown hair behind her ear, she concluded, “It’s not as if I don’t have prior experience in handling children.” Of course, she doubted looking after Mr. and Mrs. Handy’s two small children qualified in terms of educational experience. After all, she’d only recently obtained her license from a small teacher college in Boston.

  “Children? Hah! Them boys don’t hardly qualify as children, ’specially Clement and Rufus. They’re plenty big enough to drive their paw’s rigs and farm the land. Them boys is plain lazy about learnin’, and gettin’ into trouble is one way of breakin’ the boredom.”

  “Well, if they’re bored, I’ll just have to find a way to make learning fun for them.” To that, she folded her hands and set them in her lap, as if the simple act should settle everything.

  “Well, you just do that, Miss Merriwether. It’ll make my Eloise tickled pink to hear that. There weren’t nothin’ fun ’bout learnin’ with them other ones far as I know.”

  Liza’s ears perked up. “Eloise? You have a daughter, Mr. Brackett?”

  “Shore ’nough. She’s eight, my Eloise. Right smart, too, you’ll see. And sweeter than a teaspoon o’ honey. Sure do love that l’il angel o’ mine. ’Course, you probably won’t be around long enough to get to know her.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

  “Oh, I’ll be around, Mr. Brackett, you can bet on that.”

  She’d had to prove to Aunt Hettie that she’d made the right decision in coming to Little Hickman. Now it seemed she also had to prove it to Mr. Brackett and herself.

  Minutes seemed to roll into hours as the wagon tipped and turned along the dirt path. Conversation between the two of them withered into dead silence, save the chirping of birds and the continual squeak of rusted springs in the wagon bed. Just as Mr. Brackett had stated, there were no signs pointing the way to Little Hickman.

  Liza had about given up hope of ever reaching their destination when her eyes lit on an old dilapidated wooden board nailed to a rotted tree stump. Hand-painted letters, crookedly situated, spelled out the words Little Hickman Creek and under that, Welcome.

  Liza glanced at her surroundings, curious when Mr. Brackett stopped the wagon outside a small ramshackle building and began to dismount.

  “Is this it?” she asked, certain the actual town had to be around the next bend.

  He gifted her with another of his toothless grins and winked. “You seen the sign, didn’t you, Miss Merriwether?” Walking around to her side of the wagon, he reached a hand up to help her down from her perch. She took his callused hand and stepped to the hard earth, nearly losing her balance in the process, her wobbly legs refusing to hold her in one spot.

  “But…” Giving the place another fleeting look, she noted several crudely built structures.

  “This here is Main Street,” said Mr. Brackett. “Over yonder is Flanders Food Store where you’ll be gettin’ yer food supplies an’ such.” He pointed to a basic little building sporting a crooked sign. “Next to that is Emma’s Boardinghouse.”

  “Further up is Winthrop’s Dry Goods, then the mercantile, and around the bend is Grady’s Sawmill. That there’s the school,” he added as an afterthought, pointing to a little white structure two or more blocks away. The schoolhouse, although small, looked to be the nicest and the newest building in the entire town. She gave an audible sigh.

  A rickety, planked sidewalk trailed along one side of the road where she made note of two curious b
ystanders in muddy farm clothes who had halted in their steps to peruse Mr. Brackett’s arrival. One tipped his hat at Mr. Brackett before continuing his conversation with the other. A rickety wagon carrying a woman and her child passed by, the swayback horse pulling it looking ready to drop in his own dusty tracks.

  Several other horses stood tied to a hitching post outside a tawdry looking building. At first glance, she thought it was an eating establishment, but common sense told her it was more likely a saloon when she heard twangy piano music and saw a round, flabby fellow come swaying through the swinging doors and promptly vomit on the sidewalk. Turning her head away, she fought down her own brand of queasiness. Lord, help me if this is to be my new home.

  “Winthrop swore she’d be here to meet you,” said Mr. Brackett, a hint of apology in his tone as he searched the street. “Don’t know where she could be.” He pointed at a crooked bench in front of a nearby building. “Go sit a spell.”

  She must have worn a look of sheer panic, for he hesitated only briefly before waving her in the direction of the bench. “I said sit.”

  Too tired to argue, she walked to the bench and dropped into it.

  “Havin’ second thoughts, are we?”

  “Absolutely not,” she assured, bristling at his ill-mannered tone. That she was indeed having second thoughts was something she would keep to herself. Certainly, Mr. Brackett would be the last to discover her inner turmoil.

  While she waited on the straight-backed bench in front of a square little building, she turned to peer through the front window. Layers of dust covered the pane, but despite the haze, she managed to identify the place as Little Hickman’s Post Office. Closed now, she could see the front counter, marred and dirty, and beyond that, several empty slots into which Liza presumed the postal clerk sorted incoming and outgoing mail. Several “wanted” posters hung haphazardly on one wall, along with a crooked sign advertising a Sunday Picnic. “Evryone Wulcome!” The malformed letters and incorrectly spelled words reaffirmed in Liza’s mind how much the town of Little Hickman needed a decent teacher.