The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  “Gonna teach me to shoot today?” she asked.

  “You’re not very patient, are you?” He wiped his face with a cloth.

  “Not really.” Her ma could vouch for that. Always telling her it was unladylike to be in such a hurry. If only she could see Sally Sue now, bare in a bed, watching a shirtless man shave. She’d certainly say this was unladylike also.

  “Please.”

  He set a cup and a plate on a tray, poured coffee into the cup and added sugar, and placed a fresh muffin on the plate. He carried the tray over and put it next to her on the bed.

  How delightful. She wondered if husbands brought breakfast to their wives like this. She’d never seen her father do it, though.

  “Okeydoke, Miss Smoky. Get dressed, and we’ll see what we can do before the storm comes.”

  Outside the window, the sky was pristine blue.

  She laughed. “Where’re your big blizzard clouds?”

  “Like I said, patience isn’t your strong suit.” He cracked a knee for effect, donned his shirt, grabbed the rifle, and trudged to the door. “Come on out when you’re ready.”

  She munched down the muffin, gulped the coffee, threw on her men’s clothes, brushed her teeth, ran to the privy, and hurried back to the front of the cabin. Cowboy hat on his head, Cliff circled the round pen, placing empty bottles on fence posts. The bright sun hurt her eyes, so she ran inside and got her bonnet, then joined him in the pen.

  He handed her a rifle that was smaller than the one in the cabin. “This one’ll be better for you.”

  This gun might not have been as big, but it sure felt heavy.

  He picked up another one and demonstrated. “Put your right foot back, point your left toward the target, and extend the rifle straight in front of you and hold tightly. Balance the stock like this: Upturn your palm; use your fingers to create a V with your other hand. Seat the stock of your gun in the other hand, halfway between the barrel and the trigger.”

  Could it be any more complicated? She copied his stance and struggled to follow his directions, keeping her expression nonchalant to hide her frustration from him.

  He tapped her hand. “Hold closer to the trigger guard so you don’t strain your muscles.”

  That was easier.

  “Pull into your shoulder pocket, drop your cheek to the rifle, let your head fall gently over the butt, and align your eye here. Breathe normally and fire after exhaling.” With a loud blast, he hit a glass bottle and it broke into smithereens. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

  Her palms flew to her ears; she leaned over and felt as if she might faint. Memories of the other bandit’s bloodcurdling scream, the bank guard dying, and the gun at her chest swirled in her mind.

  Cliff knelt down, reached for her hand, and said softly, “Are you okay? I know it’s loud.” His kind eyes shone blue as the sky. “Now you try.”

  This couldn’t be the same man as the murderer. He’d changed. Her heart beat wildly. She breathed again, stood erect, selected one of his rum bottles, and peered forward. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Try shutting an eye.”

  She closed one. “That’s better.” Instead of nodding, she held her neck position. If she lost it, she’d never find it again.

  “Inhale, let it out, pause, and pull the trigger.”

  She did as he said, the bullet flew into the sky above the bottles, and her arm jerked back. Ouch.

  “Try it again.”

  She repeated the stance, aiming and shooting, but wasn’t able to hit a target. “Darn it all.”

  “Don’t worry—it takes time. Now, you’ve gotta shoot from every possible position.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Standing is the hardest. You’ve almost got that down. There’s also kneeling, sitting, and lying down.”

  He showed her all those stances. She rolled around on the ground until her body got used to moving from position to position. He was right—practicing in a lower position made it much easier to keep her balance.

  The sun directly overhead, he said, “Let’s stop for the day.”

  “Not until I hit a target.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  “No, sir.” She shook her head. “I’m not giving up until I’ve hit a bottle.”

  “I felt the same way on my first day shooting.” He paused, with a far-off look in his eyes. “Now that you have the positions down, don’t think about what you’re doing—feel the inhale, pause, exhale, and shoot.”

  She pushed the bonnet back from her eyes, knelt down into position, and followed his suggestion. The first bullet grazed the railing, the second got stuck on a pole right above the mark, but the third shattered the bottle.

  “Yahoo! You did it!” Cliff cried, grinning.

  Sally Sue had never felt happier in her life.

  “I see we didn’t get that storm yet.”

  He glanced out the window. “Not yet, but it’s coming. Want to shoot some more today?”

  She could barely get out of bed, her body was aching so badly, but even so her fingers itched to get back out there. She practiced an hour or so not hitting a thing but took it easy the rest of the day.

  That night after supper, to implement part two of her plan, she started in on Cliff. “Will you teach me to ride?”

  He looked at her as if she was daft. “No.”

  “Why not? I promise I won’t run away. What if you’re out hunting, or whatever you do when you’re gone, and another feral man or Indians come and I need to get away? Or there’s a forest fire? Or you get sick and I need to get a doctor? Or—”

  “Stop.” He held up his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

  After breakfast the next morning, he said, “Okay, girl. Let’s do it.”

  “You mean you’re gonna teach me to ride? You’re just the most wonderful man in the whole world.” Did she really just say that?

  He grinned. “I think you’re pretty wonderful too.”

  She blushed.

  Even though Sally Sue’s body was still a bit sore, her heart felt light when she stepped outside, in her men’s clothes and sunbonnet, and Cliff led the pinto from the pasture to the round pen. She leaned on the fence railing.

  Cliff whispered in the pinto’s ear and let him loose. “Hey! Hey!” Cliff called, then chased the horse in a circle, gently slapping its flanks with a small crop.

  Clouds blew in off the peaks and gathered overhead. With his strong body, he continued to urge the horse clockwise and counterclockwise around the pen. She hadn’t believed he’d ever really teach her to ride, and now that it was going to happen, her hands began to shake. The pinto wasn’t as big as other horses, but even so, he seemed like a giant to her. What if he didn’t like her and bucked her off, or, worse yet, escaped from the pen and shot off like a bullet from her gun?

  Clouds above Cliff parted, and a shimmering ray of sunlight hit his frame, magnifying his strong, graceful motions. He appeared to be wading through water, like Poseidon, ruler of the sea and horses. She should be ashamed of comparing him to a Greek god and reminded herself that, like Zeus, Cliff also could stir up fury at any time.

  Cliff stopped, walked to his canteen on the post beside her, and took a swig. The pinto continued to jog around the pen.

  “Do you think he has a name?” Sally Sue asked.

  “Name? I don’t know. Maybe he had one before.”

  “Shouldn’t we give him one? Your horse also?”

  “I don’t see why not. How about Murgatroyd and Matilda?” Cliff wiped sweat from his brow with his kerchief and tied it back around his neck.

  “How about Petey and Sweetie?”

  “Too girlie. Let’s name the red one Roan.”

  Sally Sue admired the white diamond design on the horse’s head.

  “Okay. And this fellow is Scout.” She hoped this one would be able to scout his way off the ranch with her on his back. If only Cliff knew what she was thinking. “Can we get started now?”

 
“Sure.” He got a saddle from the barn. Sally Sue followed him through the open gate, making sure to close it securely behind her. He harnessed Scout and saddled him up.

  “First, pet him like this.” Cliff stroked Scout’s neck.

  Sally Sue reached out to tickle Scout’s nose, trying to keep her hands from shaking noticeably. He turned his head and snipped at her fingers. She jumped back.

  “Horses see from the side, so stand there and keep your hand open. Try again, with a strong caress.” Cliff showed her. “Good boy, Scout.”

  “Good boy.” Sally Sue rubbed Scout’s neck.

  “Try his ears. Let him get to know you.”

  She stroked his ears.

  “Hop up on the railing like this.” Cliff demonstrated. “Lift your leg up here, like this, and you’re on.” Cliff slid onto Scout’s back and sat erect, then slid off again.

  That looked easy enough. Sally Sue climbed the railing, held on to a post, and lifted her right leg, but no matter how hard she tried, Scout slid away from her. “Darn it all.”

  “I guess you’re kinda puny.” Cliff grinned.

  She tried not to let that remark get to her.

  “Try this.” He hopped on the fence again. “Put your belly here, and glide your leg over him like this.”

  She put her stomach on Scout, but he darted away, and Sally Sue flew off him to the other side and fell on her behind with a thump.

  Obviously holding in a laugh, Cliff took her elbow and helped her up. “Darlin’, you’re gonna have some bruises tomorrow. Let’s give it a go another day.”

  “I’m doing it today if it kills me.” She paused and looked at him, but the meaning of those words was lost on him.

  “You’re as stubborn as a mare in heat.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Never mind.”

  She climbed the fence again and this time succeeded.

  Cliff readjusted the stirrups to fit her feet, clucked his tongue, and walked Scout around the pen.

  Heart racing, hunched over, Sally Sue hung on for dear life.

  “Now, sit up straight and use your legs to hug his flanks.”

  She sat up and tried to keep her balance. “Like this?”

  “You’ve got it.” Cliff led them around the pen. “That’s good. Now, firmly stroke his neck and say, ‘Good boy.’”

  Sally Sue reached out her hand and petted below Scout’s mane. “Good boy.”

  The gait bumpy, she didn’t like it much, but if she was ever going to get away, she’d better master this. She held her balance, listened to Cliff’s advice, and kept at it.

  “You’re a natural. Tomorrow I’ll teach you to lope, as long as the weather holds.”

  She climbed down off the railing with a laugh, even though the clouds above had darkened.

  38

  Cliff had been right. That evening, a cold mist blew in over the meadow. He led the horses to the barn and stocked the firewood. Shivering at bedtime, Sally Sue laid another blanket on the bed and curled up with Socks. A raucous rumbling, followed by flashes of bright light, woke her in the dark. Rain pummeled the tin roof like acorns, then turned to a quiet snow that drifted outside the window.

  In the morning, she relaxed on the pillow and watched the snow with gratitude. It would give her sore body a chance to recover. She waited for Cliff’s “I told you so,” but it never came. He wasn’t one to gloat.

  He brought her flapjacks and a cup of coffee, and held up the rum bottle from the mantel. “Want some?”

  “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

  “Thought it might make you feel better is all.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked nonchalantly. “I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  As soon as he went out to feed the horses, she hobbled to the mantel, grasped the rum, and poured some in her coffee. She might need to drink more of this in the future. She was determined to become an expert rider and hightail it out of there like that mountain man on his mule as soon as possible.

  The blizzard took over the ranch for five days and made trudging to the outhouse and back almost impossible. “I promise this is the last storm of the year. Spring will be here before we know it,” Cliff said. He’d go in and out to feed the horses and bring in more wood, then rush back to sit by the fire and smoke his pipe. They had begun to act like an old married couple. They bickered about his tracking in slush and whose turn it was to clean up the dishes or put another log on the fire. Even the smell of his pipe tobacco and the way he nagged her to read her poems annoyed her. Instead, she suggested they memorize some psalms and began reciting them to each other.

  He put up the wooden rods he’d whittled, and they finally hung the curtains. “These are the downright best-looking ones I’ve ever seen,” he said. As he began to close them, she told him not to—she liked to feel close to the weather and to see nature outside.

  At night, primal murmurings echoed from the cot and crescendoed to a sharp pitch, then grew quiet. She imagined him beside her in the bed, where she could inhale his earthy scent, feel his rough hands on her body. When awake, Sally Sue fought those notions. She’d need to stay alert in case his mood shifted and he again became that man who’d held a gun to her chest. But in her dreams, which never lied, desires for him floated in and out of her mind like flickering flames, cool and then hot.

  The dreams whispered to her, Let go. Let go. You can trust him.

  Several days later, the storm subsided and gave way to a radiant sky. Sally Sue woke to birdsong and stepped outside. The smell of sage was in the air. Snow still graced the peaks, but at the ranch below it had melted, and her icy heart along with it. The pond thawed. The ducks were back. Soon she’d be able to ride again.

  Cliff poked his head inside the cabin. “I’m off.”

  “Where’re you going?” She followed him outside to Roan, tied up to a fence post.

  “Just off.” He tacked up his horse and climbed on.

  “When’re you coming back?” She sounded like her nagging mother.

  “Stay close.” He stared at her for a moment, then trotted away up the hill.

  This was her chance. As soon as he was out of sight, she set to searching for the money again. She’d find it, mount Scout, and take the road out of here. She’d leave the horse in Flagstaff, hitch a ride on a train or a stagecoach, and finally go back home.

  She searched in the privy and stomped under the big oak to feel for loose holes in the muddy ground. Even though it was forbidden, she climbed into the barn loft, pitchforked the hay, and looked in every nook and cranny, but to no avail. She couldn’t go without any money.

  As night fell, Socks in her arms, she stepped outside and watched for Roan to appear, fire red in the moonlight. Why hadn’t Cliff returned before nightfall, as promised? Had he lied so she wouldn’t try to venture away? Was he sleeping under the stars on the nearby ranch that Mack had mentioned was looking for hands? Or perhaps he’d slipped into town to whoop it up with the girl in that green corset. Sally Sue felt a twinge of silly jealousy. Or—her heart sped up—Mack had caught Cliff. He was locked up in jail and getting ready for the gallows. The poster had said DEAD OR ALIVE.

  The full moon appeared, so near she wanted to reach up and touch it. A smattering of stars blinked around it. Eerie shadows began to cover the moon. The mesmerizing whiteness receded in a crescent of darkness that gradually increased until a red glow alight with fire covered the entire orb, the sky around it a canopy of midnight blue. Then, curve by curve, the moon slowly returned to its former white glow.

  Her skin prickled and Socks’s head popped up as a far-off coyote howled, a snarly, strangled cat sound ensued, and screams followed. Two months earlier, these sounds would have terrified Sally Sue, but now they intrigued her into thoughts of what might have happened. It was all nature’s way.

  She went back inside, got in bed, and tucked Socks beside her. This missing Cliff reminded her of when her father had left. She couldn’t breath
e and imagined never seeing him again. She thought of Cliff’s teasing grin, the curve of his strong shoulders when he groomed the horses. Slowly, she had begun to get used to their life together: She no longer flinched when he came near, no longer expected his compliments to be mocking, relished their quiet evenings by the crackling fire as he whittled curtain rods or braided leather reins and she sewed or tatted, Socks sleeping on the floor between them.

  She could barely sleep that night without his soft breathing coming from the cot.

  The next day, he still hadn’t returned. The weather had grown warm, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She hoped spring was finally on the way. As she walked onto the meadow, a bevy of quail whirred and scattered from the bushes, and flew away. A red-tailed hawk circled over the pond.

  A hefty stag came down the hill. He halted and, although he was still far away, fixed his gaze on her and twitched his elliptical ears beside his six-point-antlered head. Behind him the boulders seemed to move, but as she watched, she saw that it was only more deer, a dozen or so. They traveled toward the pond, drank, and nibbled the grass.

  Spellbound, she watched the two young bucks tangle antlers and push against each other in a tug-of-war. They pulled apart and with a crashing sound continued to spar. Mama Doe stared at Sally Sue, then rounded up her family and moved on.

  She rushed back to the cabin, itching to write another poem:

  Deer

  I saw a dozen

  this morning

  as they crossed

  the meadow

  under the oaks

  to browse on

  green grass.

  Pair of baby

  bucks practiced

  sparring, their

  twiglike antlers

  twisted together

  back and forth

  in a waltz.

  Spotting me,

  Mama Doe

  froze, circled

  her family,

  led them away

  with a high

  hop up the hill.

  She stopped, put down the pen. These words didn’t rhyme, but she didn’t care—that was just the way they came out.