Loving Liza Jane

by Unknown

  “It was a shame—about their mother,” Mrs. Winthrop offered.

  “My sister, you mean,” he said.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Winthrop answered. “It must have been a shock to—well, everyone.”

  “Not a shock, no. She’d been ill for some time. Now, what about that seamstress?” His curtness seemed to add an icy dimension to the already chilled room.

  “Well, as I said, I don’t happen to know of anyone offhand.”

  “Any of you sew?” he asked the women, turning an assessing eye on each of them.

  “I stitch for my family, but I’m afraid I’m quite pressed for time right now what with all my youngins’ runnin’ every which direction,” one woman answered while nervously fingering her parcel.

  Mr. Callahan nodded and looked to the other two women. Both shook their heads. “I’m afraid I can barely make do with my own pile of mending and darning, Mr. Callahan. You’d best order somethin’ ready-made.” This from the woman referred to as Mrs. Warner.

  “Well, since I don’t intend to spend the extra money on such a

  frivolous expense, I ’spect my niece’ll have to make do with what she has, holes or not.”

  Sarah’s blood had fairly reached its boiling point when she stepped forward, her camouflage no longer important. “I can sew,” she stated quite calmly despite her inward seething. Perhaps it was her hasty prayer for self-control that kept her from throttling the man the second she came out of hiding. A little girl who’d just lost her mother deserved a new dress. How dare he call such a purchase an extravagance?

  “Well, saints above, M-Miss Woodward,” Mrs. Winthrop stammered. “W-where—?” Her eyes went round as the harvest moon while the other voiceless women bystanders merely gaped. Shamefaced and clearly mortified, each one, with the exception of Mrs. Winthrop, began her hasty retreat toward the door, filing out one by one, failing even to proffer a respectable good-bye. Icy air snaked into the room with the open door, adding to the already cold atmosphere Mr. Callahan had ushered in by his mere presence.

  “You say you can stitch a dress?” Mr. Callahan asked, his eyes, a piercing shade of blue now that Sarah had the chance to see them up close, coming to rest on Sarah’s face, then carefully sweeping the length of her.

  Determined not to allow the man’s intimidation to ruffle her, Sarah replied, “I said I can sew, didn’t I?”

  “But can you stitch a dress for a girl?” he asked with a good measure of impatience.

  Under his scrutiny, she felt her neck muscles go stiff. “I’ve never made a child’s dress,” she admitted begrudgingly, “but I’ve made plenty of other things. I expect with proper measuring and planning I can make her a fine dress.”

  He gave her another hasty once-over. “You make what you’re wearin’?”

  She looked down at the blue satin gown peeking out from under her long cashmere coat. Her mother had purchased it for her as a gift before taking ill a year ago. It would be her final gift from her. An unanticipated wave of sadness threatened to divert her attention until she regained control of her wobbly emotions.

  “No, but I’ve fashioned some of my own clothing.”

  “Really.” He tipped back on his heels and gave her a disbelieving look. “You don’t appear to be the sort who would stoop to such menial tasks.”

  Taken aback, she prayed for the right choice of words. “I’ll have you know there is nothing menial about sewing. It’s a fine hobby and one that does a great deal to alleviate stress, Mr.—” The man was nothing if he wasn’t a dolt.

  “Callahan. Rocky Callahan.” He tipped his head a little by way of a greeting, and she noticed that one corner of his mouth curved slightly upward. “But then you already knew that, didn’t you, Miss—?”

  “Sarah Woodward,” she put in, deciding to ignore his impudence. “I met your niece and nephew on the stagecoach a few weeks back, and I saw you take them away.”

  No point in trying to hide the fact that she’d noticed him. She wouldn’t admit to having studied him at close range, however.

  “I assumed you were the uncle in question,” she added. But not because you overflowed with love and compassion.

  He glanced at Mrs. Winthrop who’d failed to move from her place behind the counter. Upon receiving a red-hot glare from him, she took up a bundle of papers and moved to the back room, expelling a loud gasp of air on her way. “I’ll let you know about the fabric,” he called after.

  Once again turning his dark gaze on Sarah, he said, “You’re the woman Ben Broughton sent for.”

  Sarah’s stomach tightened. The last thing she intended to do was discuss her personal reasons for coming to Little Hickman.

  “I suppose you would need to alleviate some stress about now,” he said with a mocking grin, making Sarah’s back go straight as a pin, her chin jut with resolve. “Must have been a bit of a shock to travel all that way and then find the man you came to marry had set his cap for the schoolteacher.”

  “I’ll need to measure your niece—is it Rachel?” she asked, trying her best to ignore his callousness.

  He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out on the buckboard if you’ve a mind to measure her right now.”

  “You left her sitting in the cold?” Sarah exclaimed. “And the boy as well?” Picking up her skirts, she scooted around his broad frame to see out the window. Sure enough, two unfortunate little souls sat huddled together high on their perch, plainly frozen by the way they both hugged themselves. “They’re freezing.”

  “What is wrong with you?” she asked, whirling around to face him, no longer thrown off balance by his tough exterior. “The wind is brisk today, cold enough to bite off the tips of their little noses.”

  “I told you I invited them in,” he said, as if that should fix the matter.

  “Well, you should have insisted.” Without waiting for his retort, she went to the door and flung it open. “Come in out of the cold,” she called over the wailing winds.

  Like lifeless statues, the pair sat rigid. Finally, the boy gave his sister a hopeful look, but she rewarded him with a slow shake of the head.

  “Come in,” Sarah called again, lowering her voice so that it came off sounding less demanding. Again, the boy looked to his sister; his bare little fingers finding a place to warm themselves between his skinny legs.

  “They’re not wearing mittens,” Sarah hissed in disbelief.

  “Couldn’t find them when it was time to leave. The girl is absent-minded. I’ve no idea where she put them and neither does she. I figured it would teach them both a lesson to go without.”

  “What? How old is she, six, seven? What do you expect?”

  “She’s seven, and I expect some level of responsibility,” he answered.

  His impertinence angered her so that she made a huffing sound before traipsing out into the frigid air and coming face to face with the poor little imps. Eyeing them both with equal amounts of compassion and firmness, she looked from one to the other. “Hello, Rachel and Seth. My name is Sarah, and I would like you both to come inside now. I’m to make a dress for you. Isn’t that nice, Rachel? If you’ll please come inside I can measure you.”

  The child turned cold eyes on Sarah and folded her arms in front of her. “I don’t need no dress,” she stated.

  “Just the same, you should come inside. It’s bitter cold today.”

  “Is it going to snow?” asked the boy, his teeth clattering as he spoke. His sister knocked him with her elbow, indicating he wasn’t to ask questions.

  “It certainly feels cold enough,” Sarah replied with a smile. “Do you like snow?”

  He nodded readily but at his sister’s silent admonition, chose not to elaborate.

  “Do you remember me? We rode into town together on the stage.”

  A simple nod was all she got from Seth. Rachel remained bravely staunch. “Ar mother died,” he said simply.

  “I know, and I’m ever so sorry. Did you know my mother died about the sa
me time as yours? If you come inside we can talk about it.”

  Rachel’s cold stare intensified. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine then, we won’t. I do need to measure you, however, so it’s best you hop on down. You might help me pick out the cloth as well, how would that be?”

  Only slightly intrigued with that notion, the girl looked at the doorway from where her uncle waited, his dour expression matching hers. “Ar uncle hates us,” she declared.

  Sarah digested the girl’s words and planned her response with care. “I don’t think he hates you.” Her hasty glance backward signified he couldn’t hear them over the whistling winds.

  “Well, it don’t make no difference anyway,” Rachel clucked. “’Cause we don’t like him neither.”

  Rachel shivered and offered a hand to the angry child. Begrudgingly, she took it, jumping to the hard earth below and taking care to keep her frown in place. Next, Sarah held her arms out to the boy who went to her with no prodding, his icy fingers clinging to her neck until they stepped inside and Mr. Callahan closed the door behind them.

  At the pinging of the door’s little bell, Mrs. Winthrop appeared around the curtained doorway. Sarah set Seth’s booted feet on the floor. “Have we made a decision on the fabric yet?” she asked.

  “Not yet, Mrs. Winthrop, but I would appreciate a tape measure if you have one,” Sarah said. “I need to take Rachel’s measurements.”

  “Yes, of course.” She headed for a drawer near the cash register, pulled out a long cloth tape, and then hurried to deliver it. She seemed anxious to be rid of them.

  After removing Rachel’s coat and tossing it to the side, Sarah saw why the girl needed dresses. This one was tattered beyond repair, the hem hanging crooked, holes in the sleeves, and a three-cornered tear on the back of the skirt, revealing a portion of her petticoats. Stains from lack of washing had fixed themselves down the front of her. To make matters worse, the material was nothing more than thin cotton, wearing and fraying at the edges. Sarah cast an eye at Mr. Callahan and hoped he read her disapproving look. If he did, he didn’t let on. Instead, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other while she measured, as if to communicate his agitation. The act only made Sarah want to dawdle.

  Once finished measuring, they moved to the various bolts of cloth, Mrs. Winthrop following on their heels, Mr. Callahan and the boy standing near the cash register. Sarah steered the girl in the direction of the warmer weaves, her eyes seeming close to bursting at the variety of colors and patterns. Finally, her gaze landed on rose-colored, heavy, brushed cotton. Soiled fingers came out to judge its texture. Sarah watched in rapt wonder as the girl’s expression went from hesitancy to sureness.

  “You like this one?” Sarah whispered.

  A simple nod of the head followed. Had she never had the opportunity to choose before? Moreover, had she never owned a new dress? By the looks of the one she wore, it was a hand-me-down, perhaps previously worn by more than one girl. Sarah’s heart squeezed at the notion, for she couldn’t begin to count the number of brand new dresses she’d owned in her lifetime.

  Mrs. Winthrop removed the bolt and hurried to a long table where she laid the material out to prepare for cutting. “Do you need thread?”

  “I believe I have plenty of color choices back in my trunk. I’ll check my supply before purchasing,” she said. The woman looked across the table at Sarah, clearly intrigued.

  “Fine,” she managed, taking up with the huge piece of cloth.

  Just then, Mr. Callahan approached, the young boy on his tail. “How soon before you finish the dress?” he asked.

  “I’ve nothing better to do with my time. I should think I’ll finish it in the next day or so.”

  He lifted a dark eyebrow and then removed his woolen cap before running long muscled fingers through his thick mass of black, wavy hair. “Nothing better to do, huh? You staying over at the boardinghouse?” he asked, his bottomless voice resonating off the walls.

  “Yes.” Best to keep her answers short, she determined.

  “And how long will that last?”

  Bemused, she angled him a curious stare. “What sort of question is that, Mr. Callahan?” Mrs. Winthrop’s hand movements slowed, as if she wanted to make certain not to miss a beat in the conversation.

  “A simple one. You came here to marry Benjamin Broughton, right? Since that didn’t pan out for you I was curious as to how long before you go back to wherever it is you came from.” A shadow crossed his face, indiscernible in nature.

  She hid her anger beneath a forced smile. “Not that it is any of your business, sir, but I shall remain in Little Hickman indefinitely. I sold most of my possessions while still in Winchester. To return now would be most futile.”

  “Winchester?”

  “Massachusetts. Just outside of Boston.”

  He cocked his dark head. Sarah found she had to crane her neck to see into his face, making her believe his height exceeded six feet. “Ah, no family or friends up there?”

  “Friends, yes, but none worth staying for,” she confessed, immediately put out with herself for divulging such personal information. As if that weren’t enough, she added, “My parents are both deceased and I have no siblings.”

  To that, he gave a perfunctory nod. “How long you staying at Emma’s place?”

  She couldn’t help the little huffing sound that slipped past her lips. What did he care where she resided and for how long? “For the time being,” she offered. “In time I hope to…” It wouldn’t do to mention that her financial resources sat in a trust fund back in Boston, awaiting her marriage as per her mother’s final will and testament, so she buttoned her lip and left the sentence unfinished.

  Creased brow raised, mouth slightly agape, he waited for her dangling sentence to reach its conclusion. “What? In time you hope to what?”

  The children had wandered away out of boredom and had taken up with looking at various items about the store. Finished cutting the fabric, Mrs. Winthrop carried it to the cash register and pretended busyness, then took up a writing utensil with which to jot some figures.

  “Find some suitable place in which to live,” she finished, miffed at herself for being so forthright.

  “In Hickman?” He grunted in disgust, trailing it with a cold chuckle. At that, Mrs. Winthrop gave a mighty sniff, causing both adults to turn their gazes on her. Hastily, she resumed her figuring. Mr. Callahan looked down his nose at Sarah. “In that case, you might be lookin’ a while. You’ll not find much finery in these parts, lady, and from the look of you, you’ve been conditioned to enjoy life’s finer offerings.”

  His mocking manner unnerved her, the way he perused her from top to bottom, as if she were some piece of furniture he’d been pondering buying and couldn’t quite determine whether it would mesh with his older pieces.

  “I’ll have you know I’m quite adaptable, sir!”

  As if he had good reason to disbelieve her, he gave a half-nod. “No need to be snappish,” he chided. Then with a twist of his head, he glanced at the children who’d wandered to the back of the store. “Don’t touch anything,” he ordered. At the harsh tone, his niece and nephew jolted to attention.

  “Now who’s the snappish one?” she asked, sticking out her chin.

  Clearly irritated, he ignored the remark and moved to the cash register where he pulled out a sheaf of bills from his pocket. Sarah examined the roll of greenbacks from where she stood.

  A palpable tightwad, that’s what he was.

  Mrs. Winthrop stated her price, and Mr. Callahan frowned. “You sure about that? Seems high to me.”

  “It’s extremely reasonable, Mr. Callahan,” Sarah inserted. Mrs. Winthrop’s shoulders sagged with gratitude.

  “Oh, fine,” was his annoyed response, passing the proprietor a single bill then waiting while she made change. Once she slipped it to him, she gathered up the paper parcel containing the rose-colored material and handed it over to Sarah.

&
nbsp; Man and woman faced each other as rivals. “Bring Rachel by Emma’s tomorrow afternoon,” she issued. “I should be ready for her first fitting by then.”

  “Tomorrow?” His brow gathered into a frown. “Don’t know as I’ll have the time tomorrow.”

  Rather than react, Sarah merely gave her head a little toss. “Well, I can’t put the finishing touches to the dress without first fitting her.”

  Broad shoulders went into an impatient shrug. “Oh, all right—tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Then to Rachel, she bent just slightly and placed a hand on her tattered, wool bonnet. “See what you can do about finding those mittens, okay?”

  The girl nodded, her expression bleak. Sarah smiled at both unfortunate waifs. Clearly, they needed attention.

  As for the man, he deserved nary a glimpse backward as she tugged open the heavy door and marched out into January’s harsh breezes.

  ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅ ❅

  About the Author

  Sharlene MacLaren

  Born and raised in western Michigan, Sharlene MacLaren attended Spring Arbor University. Upon graduating with an education degree, she traveled internationally for a year with a small singing ensemble, then came home and married one of her childhood friends. Together they raised two lovely daughters. Now happily retired after teaching elementary school for thirty-one years, “Shar” enjoys reading, writing, singing in the church choir and worship teams, traveling, and spending time with her husband, children, and precious grandchildren.

  A Christian for over forty years and a lover of the English language, Shar has always enjoyed dabbling in writing—poetry, fiction, various essays, and freelancing for periodicals and newspapers. Her favorite genre, however, has always been romance. She remembers well the short stories she wrote in high school and watching them circulate from girl to girl during government and civics classes. “Psst,” someone would whisper from two rows over, and always with the teacher’s back to the class, “pass me the next page.”

  Shar is an occasional speaker for her local MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) organization, is involved in KIDS’ HOPE USA, a mentoring program for at-risk children, counsels young women in the Apples of Gold program, and is active in two weekly Bible studies. She and her husband, Cecil, live in Spring Lake, Michigan, with Dakota, their lovable collie, and Mocha, their lazy fat cat.