The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  She leaned over and picked up her tatting, now a tangled heap.

  “Darn Socks!” Sally Sue scolded.

  Cliff looked at her and chuckled. “That’s a knee-slapper. Darn Socks!”

  At first, she didn’t get the inadvertent joke, but then she started laughing also.

  Cliff explained the hilarity to Mack, and he joined in.

  “I know you have big plans, but it’s hard to get started out here. If you need to make money, there’s a ranch farther up the mountain that might need some help,” Mack said.

  “I’ll be just fine.”

  “May I use your privy?” Mack stood.

  This was her chance. She hopped up. “I’ll show you.”

  “No need, darling. I’ll do it.” Cliff stood and threw a friendly arm around Mack’s shoulder. “I want to show him the barn, anyway.”

  The men staggered outside. She reached for Cliff’s gun, still sitting on the table, but he hurried back inside and grabbed it first.

  “Forgot my rifle, honey. Don’t know what dangers might be about.” He chuckled and left.

  “Darn it to hell.” She got the letters from the trunk, slid them into her pocket, put the empty muffin tin in the washbasin, and scrubbed it harshly.

  The men soon returned and recommenced drinking and smoking. When the jug was empty and the sun faded over the horizon, Mack finally rode off, taking with him all her hopes for a rescue.

  Cliff had passed out on the table. Angry at herself for not having the courage to confront him in front of Mack or at least get the letter to the sheriff, she stomped outside and into the meadow. The silver crescent moon, an empty cradle suspended in the dark sky, glittered above. She longed to fly up to it, curl up, and stay there, hidden from Cliff’s view, rocking back and forth for comfort, her shawl a blanket.

  Cliff’s snoring woke her. Sally Sue must have dozed off in the rocker. She shook her shoulders. Cigar stench permeated the cabin, and she couldn’t abide it.

  Crickets chirped in cadence with her heartbeat as she stepped outside. Ripe loam and horse scent filled her senses. Oaks shifted in the light breeze, and she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her body, just a small dot in the universe, rested under the inky sky filled with shimmering stars. The canopy’s grandness soothed her soul, and she began to relax.

  “What’re you doin’ out here?” Cliff yelled, and ambled toward her. “Come on back inside.”

  “I’m getting air is all.”

  Far off, a howl filled the air and a shiver went up her spine. Mother of God, here it was the “I told you so.”

  “Listen to that. Even Mack said it’s dangerous to be out here alone.”

  Another wail, this time louder and more insistent. Sally Sue tried not to shudder noticeably. “What is it?” she asked.

  He held up a finger for her to be quiet as another sound echoed.

  “A wolf, or maybe an Injun pretending to be a wolf. It’s hard to tell.”

  Cliff’s eyes shone in the darkness as a bark from another direction answered the others. “Probably a coyote. They shift their sounds to mimic the prey they plan to capture. It might have been a feral cat, a bobcat, or even a fight to the death with a cougar. I’ve heard it called natural selection or survival of the fittest.”

  This also referred to humans, including her. Sally Sue needed to learn to protect herself. Cliff led her back to the house and trudged out to the barn. She slipped on her nightgown, climbed into bed, and fell asleep, but then a yip and a howl from outside woke her. Her heart beating rapidly, she sat up straight and stared into the darkness.

  Back in the meadow, her nightdress wafted around in the cool zephyr. Smoky fog had rolled in, so dense she could barely see the trees through the pallid air. From behind a ponderosa, a towering figure lurched out and staggered toward her. His white face gleamed. Tough grin on red-painted lips, black lines drawn on his cheeks, stringy raven hair. He continued toward her with outstretched, muscular arms.

  Trapped in a tepee of fear, she tried to run, but her feet were frozen in place. More strong-bodied men stepped out from between the trees and lumbered toward her. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

  A firm hand grasped her shoulder. “Sal. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  She opened her eyes and clutched Cliff tightly. “There were Injuns. They seemed so real.”

  “None here. You’re safe.” He gently ran his hand over her hair.

  Within his arms, she felt protected, but then, suddenly realizing where she was, she shoved him away. How did he know about her nightmare? Why was he inside the cabin? He went outside and closed the door. Fear gripped her soul. She’d need to come up with a firm plan to get away from this dangerous place and this dangerous man.

  32

  In the morning, a strong breeze blew and Sally Sue had a brilliant idea. If Annie Oakley had learned to shoot like an expert at fifteen, Sally Sue could do it too. In Kansas City, she’d seen the cowgirl in a traveling show. At five feet tall, they happened to be the same height. When Annie rode on the horse’s back, she seemed much taller than that.

  To gain Cliff’s trust, Sally Sue needed to make him think she was a helpless female, content to stay.

  When he came in for breakfast, she said, “Cliff, thank you for these beautiful floors. It’s ever so much easier to keep the cabin clean.” She stirred oatmeal in the cauldron, filled bowls, and sat at the table with him.

  “I did it for me as much as you. I should be done this afternoon.”

  “Were you serious about adding another room?”

  “Sure am.” He picked up his spoon, and dug it into his oatmeal.

  “That’ll be nice. As Sheriff Mack said, you sure are handy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I know Mama said it’s not ladylike, but I want to learn how to shoot a gun.”

  He harrumphed.

  “Cliff, please, teach me. Sometimes I’m scared being alone out here.” She stuck out her lower lip. “If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”

  He flinched, then exploded into a giant belly laugh. “Oh, Sally Sue, you slay me. Of course I can trust you. You wouldn’t ever hurt a flea. If you killed me, what would you do out here all alone in this wilderness?”

  Plenty! She feigned a laugh. “You’re right, Cliff. I’m so weak, I need a man to take care of me.” She considered batting her lashes at him, but that would be overkill; plus, she’d tried that tactic before and it had backfired on her.

  Overkill. Ha. Backfired. Ha. She held back a giggle.

  Her mama used to say a man didn’t have much horse sense. If Cliff did, he’d know Sally Sue couldn’t be trusted, because she’d shoot him dead as soon as she’d learned how to release a bullet. She’d shoot to kill, not to injure, because then he’d go after her like a wounded bear and that would be the end of her.

  He raised his voice. “I said, let me think about it. Besides, it’s too windy anyway.”

  She gave him her biggest smile. “How about just showing me how to hold it?”

  He sighed. “I guess that wouldn’t hurt anything.” He picked up the rifle leaning on the fireplace. “This one’s pretty big for a little gal like you, but it’ll do.”

  She stood next to him.

  “Put it in your arm like this, as if you’re cradling a baby.” He rocked the gun back and forth and demonstrated. “One finger goes here, on the stock; the other rests there, on the trigger.”

  Seemed easy enough.

  He handed the gun to her. “Now you try.”

  “Like this?” It was heavier than she’d thought it would be. She closed one eye, swung around, and aimed at his chest.

  He jumped and ducked to the side and bellowed, “Never point a gun unless you’re planning to use it.” He gently pushed the point away.

  Nervous, she giggled.

  “It’s no laughing matter. You mighta killed me.”

  “Maybe.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

 
“Except it’s not even loaded.” He took the gun and laid it against the fireplace.

  “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll be out finishing the rest of the planks.” He walked out the door, shaking his head. “I’m not ever gonna teach you to shoot. No telling what you’ll do.”

  Now she sighed. That plan wasn’t going to work. Just in case, though, she practiced holding the gun for a while, then leaned it back against the hearth.

  That night, before she crawled into bed, she prayed, God, how will I ever get away from Cliff?

  The following morning just before sunrise, the winds had died and the sound of crooning frogs woke her. She threw her nightgown back on, tossed her shawl over it, and laced up her boots. Lantern in hand, she stepped outside, inhaling the crisp air. A quarter moon and smattering of stars still hung in the sky.

  She followed the frog song down to the thawed pond. In the lamplight, the muddy banks teemed with shimmery sea-green reptiles. Their mesmerizing cadence reverberated along the shore. Were they talking to each other or to her?

  She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and listened.

  Do it! Do it! Do it!

  Her eyes popped open.

  Do it! Do it! Do it!

  What were they telling her to do? Run away? She’d tried that before, and it hadn’t worked.

  Do it!

  Were they encouraging her to kill Cliff? The thought had crossed her mind, but she’d never seriously considered it. Could she kill him? It was the worst sin of all. Because of her dire situation, would God forgive her? Would she ever be able to forgive herself? She didn’t know the first thing about doing it. If she tried to smother him in his sleep, he’d probably wake up and kill her instead. Shooting him would be violent but quick, but after yesterday, he wasn’t going to teach her how to use a gun anyway. Poison might be the answer.

  A blood-orange sunrise filled the sky. No way would she be able to do it.

  Tiny frogs climbed over Sally Sue’s boots. She jumped back, stared at them, and listened to their message again.

  Do it! Do it! Do it!

  She ran back to the cabin as Cliff came out of the barn. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I went to the pond to see the frogs. There must be a million of them.”

  “Mmm. Makes for good eatin’. I’ll go get us some for breakfast. Wanna help?”

  Even though they’d been living out here together all this time, she still couldn’t tell when he was teasing. “No, thanks.”

  By the time he returned from his collecting, she’d gotten dressed and was feeding Socks. Cliff put a pailful of frogs on the sideboard. They slithered up and over each other, trying to crawl out. Cliff was just trying to scare her, but she showed him. She picked one up and petted its bumpy back, slimy as a wet cucumber.

  Do it! Do it! Do it! the frog croaked.

  Sally Sue glanced at Cliff, fearful he’d heard the frog’s message too, but he just had that silly grin on his face that he sometimes got and placed a china plate atop the bucket.

  “Wait for them to suffocate, then cook ’em up good and greasy.” He licked his lips and went out to do his chores.

  She picked up the plate and peeked in again at the hopping little monsters.

  Do it! Do it! they teased.

  “Oh, be quiet!” Sally Sue hollered at the frogs. Then she clasped her hand over her mouth and put the plate back on the pail.

  Cliff came running in. “You okay?”

  She looked up innocently. “What?”

  “I thought I heard you call.”

  “Not me.”

  “Okay, darlin’. Let me know if you need anything.” He left her alone again.

  Cliff did show his sweet side sometimes, but at any moment he could snap, and there was no telling what he would do then.

  Do it! Do it!

  Maybe she should. She wished she had some of that potion she’d seen on the tinker man’s wagon. Some berries could heal, and others could kill. Some of the killing kind would probably be growing on the hill nearby come spring, and by summer they’d ripen. She could test a tiny bite of each until she discovered which one was potent. No, that wouldn’t work—she might taste one that could kill a person with one lick.

  The frogs had grown silent. She pulled off the plate and peeked inside. One frog squirmed slowly, but the rest seemed dead.

  Out front in the larder, she got the butter and scooped some into the iron skillet on the stove. While collecting flour and cornstarch, she spotted the bottle of white powder Cliff used to kill mice.

  She checked to make sure he wasn’t coming, reached for the bottle, shook her head, changed her mind. It probably wouldn’t work on a big man anyway.

  As the butter melted in the skillet, she stirred in flour and cornstarch and held the spoon aloft.

  Do it! Do it! her mind sang. She’d need to be careful. Quickly, she grabbed the powder and laced a trace amount into the batter. If she wasn’t careful, Cliff might taste the bitterness and grow suspicious. What if he didn’t die and realized what she’d done? Would it be better to stir in more, in hopes he’d die right away? She sprinkled additional powder into the mixture.

  Her squeamish stomach roiled as she picked up a dead frog with her fingers, rolled it in the batter, tossed it into another skillet, and fried the corpse to a crispy texture. Cliff might die right there at the kitchen table, keel over onto the new wooden floor planks, or stumble out to upchuck and fall down dead on the dusty ground. Would he call her to help him?

  But soon she’d be free, and with this break in the weather, she could take off right away. No way did she have the strength to dig a hole, move him, and give him a good Christian burial.

  Would she go to hell? Thou shalt not kill. Was breaking that commandment ever justified? After all, he was wanted dead or alive. Either way, she’d never try to collect the reward; they might suspect she’d killed him.

  Cliff poked his head in the door. “What’s taking you so darn long? I’m a hungry man, woman.”

  “I had to wait until they conked out.” She smiled at him innocently. “It’ll be ready soon.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Smells good.” The blue of his eyes brightened to match the color of the day’s sky.

  Would he really harm her? She finished cooking, opened the door to call him in, and watched his strong and graceful body as he twirled a lasso in graceful circles around his feet, then over his head, singing at the top of his lungs, “Oh, my daaarlin’ Clementine.”

  No, she couldn’t justify killing him. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t even kill a mouse. She sighed, tossed the entire concoction into an empty jar, and began the process over again, this time without the powder.

  That night, in the twilight, frogs sang her a lullaby to sleep. She hoped she’d made the right decision, and might as well give in and accept the fact that she’d be here for a very long time.

  33

  Early the next morning, mist seeped over the ranch, thick as an eider quilt. Socks curled up in Sally Sue’s lap while she tried to write a poem. Cliff had been begging to hear one, and she needed to at least pretend she wrote. She picked up the pen, dipped it in ink, and carefully used her best cursive:

  Snowed In

  The ranch house sits in the valley

  filled with blue-and-white dishes,

  wooden antiques, and crackling fire.

  Isn’t a poem supposed to rhyme?

  Someone rapped on the cabin door. She jumped up. Maybe it was Sheriff Mack. Cliff never knocked.

  “Coming,” she called, and held Socks in her arms. Sally Sue cracked open the door and peeked out. A scrawny fellow with a mangy mustache and beard stood on the porch. He stunk to high heaven, as if he hadn’t had a bath in years. Gnats flew around his sideways hat. His beaded and fringed suede jacket matched his soiled pants.

  He looked like a sinful man, tipped-up nose like a coyote. “Kin you spare a poor man somethin’ to eat?” he asked. A mule and a sled filled with what appeared
to be beaver furs stood behind him.

  At least she had on the men’s clothing. “Wait here. I’ll see what I have.” She closed the door, but he pushed it open and followed her inside.

  “Yer purty. I ain’t seen a gurl nigh on a year.” The man grinned at her.

  She put Socks on the bed, glanced at the door, and raised her voice so Cliff might hear: “Smells like you haven’t seen a bath in that long, either, you scallywag!”

  “But I’ve been up in them peaks,” he whined, and kept walking toward her.

  Heart pounding, she kept backing up. “Don’t they have streams up there?”

  “Aren’t you the alley cat?” The man lunged toward her with a high-pitched titter.

  She reached out and slapped him. “Stay away.”

  Tears in his eyes, he put a hand to his cheek. “Why’d you go and do that?”

  She tried to keep her hands from shaking as she pulled out a chair. “You set while I make you some fixins. In the meantime, here’s an apple.” She picked a rotten one from the horse stash, handed it to the man, and put the stationery and ink on the mantel.

  He pulled out a knife, cut up the apple, and chowed it down quickly. “Mmm. Tasty.” He growled like a wolf, leered at her. What was he going to do?

  He rose, scurried around the table, and grasped her wrists with sweaty fingers that wiggled like snakes.

  She pulled away with a roiling grimace, grabbed the gun from the hearth, and aimed it at his chest. “Git out.” she hollered.

  “You ain’t the shootin’ kind,” he snickered, with a toothy grin.

  “Wanna try me?” she asked. “I’ve never shot a man before but have always wanted to.” She cocked the gun.

  He winced, backed up toward the door, and opened it.

  “Thanks for the apple,” he said, hurrying down the porch steps and out to his mule.

  Sally Sue followed and pulled the trigger, and, to her shock, a bullet whizzed out over the man’s head. She was sure Cliff had said the gun wasn’t loaded. The mountain man yelped and hightailed on his mule up to the hills.