The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  “Certainly, sir.” Mrs. McMillan sliced a hunk of cheese for each of them from the wheel on the counter and handed the pieces to them on napkins. “Help yourself to the crackers.”

  Even though she was starving, Sally Sue nibbled slowly on the food.

  “What else, sir?” Mrs. McMillan asked.

  “I need some articles for myself and my little lady.”

  “I’m not your—”

  He situated his hand on Sally Sue’s shoulder. “She’s spunky as all get-out. Small as an acorn but mighty as an oak.”

  She tried to tug away, but he held tight as he gave the woman a slip of paper from his coat pocket.

  Sally Sue tried to read the list. She couldn’t make out the words but could tell the letters were precise.

  “We’ve got plenty of goods to choose from. New shipments arrived from Prescott just yesterday, and another on this morning’s train.” The woman set the list on the counter, put on her pince-nez, and studied it.

  “Darrel,” she hollered. “Darrel McMillan!”

  From the back of the store, a bald man with a beard crawled down off a ladder and strode toward them. “Howdy.”

  She handed him the list.

  “New in town?” Darrel asked Cliff.

  “Yes, sir.” He shook the man’s hand; arm garters bound back the sleeves of his white shirt.

  “I’m Clifford Canyon, and this is my missus, Sally Sue. You must be Darrel McMillan.”

  “Yes’m, and this is my wife, Danica.”

  Danica tipped her head.

  Darrel read the list. He looked at Sally Sue’s feet. “We’ll get you fixed up right away. Take a seat.”

  She sat in a chair beside the stove. The heat sure felt good. Cliff wandered over, perused the guns and ammunition nearby, chose a few items, and put them on the counter.

  Darrel ran his hand along a shelf, grabbed a pair of boots, and handed them to his wife. “Give these a try.” He took the list and walked to the back of the shop.

  Sally Sue slipped off her thin shoes, embarrassed by their filth and her dirty stockinged feet.

  Danica helped her get the boots on and tied them for her. “Stand, please.” She pressed her finger in front of the toes. “Perfect fit. Walk a bit.”

  Sally Sue clomped along the wooden floor. Ugh. They looked like something a forty-niner would wear. She’d never get away with something so ugly at home.

  “They might feel tight now, but the leather will soon give way.” Danica picked up Sally Sue’s filthy shoes and looked at Cliff.

  “Throw them away.” Cliff nodded and gave her a crooked smile.

  Sally Sue put her hand on her chest. Her beautiful favorite shoes.

  Danica looked at her sympathetically. “They must have been really pretty before they got all muddy.”

  I want to keep them, Sally Sue wanted to yell, but it was no use. The celery-green peau de soie would never come clean anyway.

  “Mrs. McMillan, would you help her pick material for a new frock?” Cliff asked.

  Danica extended an arm to Sally Sue. “Certainly. Right this way, Mrs. Canyon.”

  Mrs. Canyon—for goodness’ sake. Sally Sue clomped over to the fabric bolts. The boots might be clunky, but they were comfortable to walk in and would keep her feet dry. In her fancy suit, she must appear ridiculous.

  Darrel continued to collect and pile more items on the list—coffee, sugar, flour, oatmeal, dried beans—on the counter, filling in a ledger as he worked. Cliff placed a packet of tobacco beside the other supplies.

  “You’re not from around these parts, are you?” Danica asked.

  “No, Missouri.” Sally Sue wanted to say more, but Cliff peered at her as he leaned on the counter.

  “I think that’s everything on the list. Is there anything else?” Darrel asked.

  “I’m in need of a quiet place for us to settle down for a while. Might do a little farming. Know of any land I can procure?”

  “Yes, sir. I certainly do. There’s a homestead out yonder, way past the lumberyard, at the base of the peaks.”

  “Do you mean the Ivrys’ place?” Danica piped up. “They’re lookin’ to sell?”

  “No.” He paused and exchanged glances with Cliff. “They’ve up and left.”

  “Where’d they go?” Sally Sue asked.

  “No one knows for certain.” Darrel shrugged.

  She had a feeling he wasn’t telling the truth.

  Danica said, “It’s rough living out there. Sometimes folks just up and leave.”

  “Need anything else, Mr. Canyon?”

  “Cliff. Call me Cliff. Which livery do you suggest for a wagon and horses?”

  “Might need to pick them up out of town, but Rutledges would be best.”

  “Do you want to go with me to make arrangements?”

  “Sure. And I’ll draw you a map on how to get to the Ivrys’ place. There’s probably tack in the barn and hay left in the loft.”

  “Be right back.” Cliff glanced at Sally Sue, patted his hip, and walked out the door.

  “This would be lovely on you.” Danica held up a bolt of dusty green.

  This was Sally Sue’s chance to get help. “Danica, I’m—”

  Cliff stuck his head back in the door. “Pick out anything you want, sweetheart.”

  Sally Sue sat in the chair by the fire. Who did he think he was, calling her “sweetheart”? Was he trying to trick her? She’d better wait until he was down the road before asking for help.

  “What about this green?” Danica wiggled the bolt in front of Sally Sue.

  It had a washed-out look to it. To bide her time, she might as well look at the material. Sally Sue walked over to the shelf and scanned the other fabrics. Her eyes landed on a green satin similar to that of the saloon girl’s outfit, but Sally Sue wouldn’t dare wear such a decadent, bright color.

  She ran her hand along a blue, yellow, and red posy print. “How about this one?”

  Danica pulled it from the stack and carried it to the counter. “You have good taste. It’s very pretty, and practical, too, because it won’t show the dirt as much.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake.

  “How much do you want?”

  “Five yards.” Sally Sue made her way to the door and watched Cliff and Darrel stop in front of the saloon. Cliff held open the swinging doors for Darrel, but he shook his head and they continued on.

  “Where’s the livery?” Sally Sue asked. Perhaps she could make it to the sheriff while they were there.

  “Down the road a spell.”

  “Past the jail?”

  “Just on the other side.”

  Sally Sue would need to wait before she could hurry to the sheriff.

  10

  A blond little one dashed across the room and stopped in front of her. “Hellooo.”

  “Aren’t you a big boy?” Sally Sue smiled.

  His bright eyes stared at her. “Pitty.”

  “Do you mean ‘pretty’? Thank you kindly.” Her heart melted, and she wanted to gather him in her arms.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “I’s three.” He propped a thumb on top of his pinky finger and held up his hand.

  “Isaiah, don’t bother Mrs. Canyon.” Danica shook her head.

  “Oh, he’s fine.”

  Isaiah rummaged in his overall pockets and pulled out his hand.

  “What have you got there?” Sally Sue knelt down.

  “Marblie.” He handed it to her.

  She studied it—“It’s a beautiful blue marble”—and tried to give it back to him.

  He pushed her hand away. “You keep. Blue like sky.”

  Danica nodded and grinned.

  He pointed to her head.

  “My hat?” Sally Sue untied the ribbon, removed her bonnet, and held it out to him.

  He patted the silk flowers. “Isaiah wear?”

  Sally Sue set it on the boy’s head, tilted it back, and tied the bow. She smiled as he ran in a circ
le, halted at the mirror, and giggled at his reflection. The bonnet toppled off his head.

  “Oopsy-daisy.” She picked it up off the floor.

  “Oopsy-daisy.” He giggled again, cocked his head, and ran out the door.

  In her new boots, Sally Sue followed him down the steps as a stagecoach created ruts in the mud and the snorting horse pulled up and stopped in front of the hotel. A cowboy lurched out of the coach and made his way across to the saloon. Sally Sue ran back inside the mercantile, snatched her basket, hurried down the steps, and stopped.

  Mr. Bjork unloaded a trunk off the top of the coach and carried it into the hotel. She scanned the street to make certain Cliff wasn’t nearby. As quickly as possible, despite her tight skirt, she made a beeline to the stagecoach.

  The driver, with a scraggly mustache and a floppy hat, held the door open for her. “Ma’am, where’s your luggage?”

  She held up her basket and handed him a few coins. “I travel light.”

  “Runnin’ away, are you?” He chortled.

  “Maybe.” She feigned a flirtatious giggle.

  He blushed and closed the door.

  She breathed more easily and sat back in the empty coach, offering a silent prayer of thanks to God. It seemed to take forever before the stagecoach began to roll down the street.

  From outside a man yelled, “Hold the coach!”

  It slowed down and stopped, and the door flew open. Mr. Bjork pointed a rifle at her. “Here she is,” he called.

  “Where’re you off to?” Cliff, out of breath, said from behind Mr. Bjork.

  Her heart flip-flopped in her chest. “I need to get back to Ma and Auntie.”

  Cliff glowered. “This coach is going west, not east, darling.”

  “Oh, my stars and garters.” Even though her heart was beating fast, she forced a laugh. “Silly me. I meant west.”

  Cliff gently pushed Mr. Bjork’s gun down and spoke to him. “Thank you kindly. I’ll take care of her from here.”

  Mr. Bjork stepped back. She heard Darrel’s voice outside the stagecoach. “Can you take Mr. and Mrs. Canyon and their supplies to Sven’s place to pick up their wagon and horses?”

  “Be happy to.”

  Cliff settled in beside her, and they rode up the street to the mercantile. As he got out, Sally Sue followed him, but he lightly pushed her back inside.

  “Let me go,” she squealed.

  “I can’t do that, darling.” He slammed the door and closed the leather curtains.

  She crossed her arms. She had no option but to wait while Cliff helped load their goods on top of the coach. Everyone in town by now believed she had suffered some kind of breakdown.

  Cliff piled in a few crates, then climbed in and sat across from her.

  Darrel handed him one filled with apples. “These are complimentary. Good luck.”

  Cliff put the crate beside him on the seat and shook Darrel’s hand. “Thanks. I’ll pay up at the end of the month.”

  “Sure thing.” Darrel closed the door and hit the side of the coach.

  Sally Sue sat back as they pulled out of town. “Let me go. I’ll just be a burden to you. I won’t tell anybody who you are.” She folded her hands under her chin.

  “We’re going to the homestead.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “But that’s out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “That’s the point.”

  She sat back with a groan. The dark, stuffy coach smelled of musty leather, sweat, and grime. It picked up speed and began to rock back and forth.

  Cliff put his saddlebag on top of a mail pouch, picked up her feet, and slid them over it. “This should make you more comfortable. It might be a rough ride.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She stared at the saddlebags. Was the money in there?

  He pulled an apple from the crate and offered her one. Even though she was hungry, she shook her head. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of taking anything from him.

  “Suit yourself.” He shined the apple on his thigh, took a big bite, chewed, swallowed slowly, and licked his lips, then pulled his Stetson over his eyes.

  Famished, she grabbed an apple from the bin and munched it down fast. Soon, the stagecoach picked up speed. Sally Sue closed her eyes, but the rocking and intermittent jolts jarred her body, and her belly began to roil. She shouldn’t have eaten that apple.

  She wanted to knock on the ceiling and ask the driver to slow down, but instead she held back the leather curtain and gasped for air. The sun shone from behind billowy clouds. Muddy ruts from previous travelers made the road rugged. To help settle her stomach, she tried to count the pines as they passed. When the coach rounded a bend, mud splashed up from a wheel and flew into her face. She closed the curtain with a scream.

  Cliff laughed. She had to get out now. She put her fingers on the door handle. Cliff removed his hat. If she jumped out, she’d probably be killed, but it would be better than being in this stagecoach with a murderer.

  11

  That evening, Anne donned the corset, skirt, cowgirl boots, and black coat. Bushy hair updoed, she applied plenty of makeup and false eyelashes. She checked herself out in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door, put a hand behind her head, wiggled her hips, and said aloud, “I am lovable, gorgeous, and sexy.”

  She wrote it on a sticky note with a Sharpie and attached it to the top of the mirror. If this didn’t do the trick, she didn’t know what would.

  Stars glittered in the sky as she rode a Lyft to Sockshop on Haight Street. She asked the driver to wait while she ran in and purchased a pair of fishnet stockings. She pulled them on in the Lyft’s back seat and texted Howard: On my way.

  As they drove into Hayes Valley, the shops were just starting to close. Warning foghorns hooted from the bay. That eerie sound always made her feel as if danger were ahead; she shivered in her coat.

  The driver dropped her off in front of Ruby’s. Country music beat a rhythm as she stepped inside the foyer and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Along the side walls hung framed antique posters. Small art lights illuminated each.

  One poster had a sketch of a bandit, but because of his hat and the kerchief over his mouth, only his beady eyes showed. Anne wondered how the drawing could have helped find the bandit. The poster read:

  WANTED

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  $1,000 REWARD

  CLIFFORD CLIFTON, ALIAS CLIFF CLABOURN

  SHOULD BE CONSIDERED DANGEROUS

  BANK ROBBER, MURDERER

  KANSAS CITY, 1885

  “Cool.” She took a photo with her phone. The poster might work in one of her collages.

  “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” one of her favorite songs, began to play, and she entered the jam-packed space. Howard waved at her from a high bar. To the beat of the music, she strutted around the dance floor and wound her way through the tables, toward the back. She gave Howard a hug and hung her coat on the stool.

  “Girlfriend, look at you.” Howard touched the sequins on her waist.

  “Arizona vintage.” She wiggled her hips.

  “Yeehaw! You look plum purty.’” He spoke in an exaggerated country drawl.

  “You’re looking dapper yourself.”

  His blond hair slicked back, he walked in a circle to show off his sequined vest and fitted jeans. “Yes’m. I’m always ready. Never know who I might meet.”

  “I guess so.” He was such a character.

  “I ordered us some ale.”

  A waitress swung by and dropped off their beers.

  Howard held up his stein. “To vintage shopping.”

  Anne clicked her glass with his, took a sip. She leaned in and said, “I had the best time.”

  “It’s too loud to talk,” he yelled. “Show me more pics.”

  She handed him her phone, and Howard started scrolling through while she watched the crowd on the dance floor.

  They finished their beers, and he ordered another round. The band switched to “Electr
ic Boogie.”

  Anne and Howard gazed into each other’s eyes and mouthed the lyrics. Ready? Let’s do this.

  He took her hand, and she followed him onto the dance floor, lights flashing above. Step-touch, step-touch, she then shimmied her shoulders, feeling sexy dancing in the corset. But when it came time to turn, she missed the beat, her feet got all tangled up, and she bumped into the guy beside her.

  “Sorry.” How embarrassing.

  The guy shrugged, jumped in front of her, and pointed at his feet for her to copy his exaggerated moves.

  Dancing had never been her forte, but she thought she’d be able to follow along to this one. When she still couldn’t get the hang of it, she returned to her chair but continued to sing along.

  “You do know what the words are about, don’t you?” Howard yelled over the music as he sat back beside her.

  She shook her head. “No. What?”

  “Listen.”

  She listened closely: electric, shakin’, pumpin’.

  “A sex toy? Oh my God. No way.” She couldn’t stop laughing.

  “I’ve heard the composer denies it, but you’ve gotta wonder.” Howard slapped his knee.

  They finished their beer. When their server passed by, Howard ordered another round.

  The music switched to Brooks & Dunn’s “Brand New Man.” Anne loved the song and watched the guy she had run into move smoothly around the dance floor, doing the cowboy cha-cha. Thumbs tucked into his front jean pockets, he rocked back and forth and did the turns perfectly. The buckle on his belt, big as a rodeo star’s, gleamed in the light. Anne imagined what he’d look like with his shirt off. He reminded her of one of the Thunder from Down Under dancers she’d taken Fay to see for her bachelorette party.

  Maybe he really was a cowboy, sexy in his rust suede chaps and Stetson. Maybe he owned a horse or even a ranch out in Los Olivos, Napa, or Sonoma. They could ride from his property to go wine tasting. He’d sit real tall on a big palomino like Trigger, and she’d wear her green lace corset on a paint. An artist should always ride a colorful horse. Maybe he even played a guitar and sang like Roy Rogers.

  A cowboy was exactly the kind of man she needed. He’d be much more down to earth and grounded than a jet-setting foodie like Sergio.