The Green Lace Corset, стр. 12

“May I have a drink of water, please?” she asked Mr. Bjork, to get him to stop yapping.

“Sure thing. How about some lemonade? I’ll be just a moment. Don’t do anything foolish.”

This mud-forsaken place didn’t even compare to Kansas City, with its mighty three-story constructions, commerce, and population. Flagstaff folks moved at a slower pace, just moseyed along in the dirt. In Kansas City, the hustle-bustle of jam-packed streets, horse-drawn carriages, and streetcars kept a lively pace. They were even getting ready to switch from horsepower to electric streetcars.

She stood up to run down to Sheriff Mack, but a woman hurried up the steps toward Sally Sue. “Herbs for sale.”

Sally Sue shook her head.

The woman’s skin was the color of cocoa. Between that and her raven hair, if she hadn’t been dressed in a yellow frock with a calico bonnet, Sally Sue would have thought she was a squaw, or maybe a Mexican.

The peculiar women grasped Sally Sue’s hand. “I’ve something to tell you.”

Sally Sue’s impulse told her to pull away, but the woman’s hand felt warm and comforting. Her deep-set eyes seemed to reflect that she understood what Sally Sue was going through.

“Find the honey in every heart.” The woman’s voice sounded as smooth as that liquid itself.

Spellbound, Sally Sue replied, “But what if the person is evil?”

“Evil? No one is entirely evil. Actions can be deceiving. Look further, for the goodness within.” The woman’s hand fiddled for something in her basket; then, finding it, she handed a silk pouch to Sally Sue.

It fit perfectly in the palm of her hand. “What is it?”

“Just a little sweet tea to help you see. No sugar needed.”

“But I haven’t any money to pay you.”

“A smile will do.”

Sally Sue’s lips felt rusted into a frown. With difficulty, she forced the edges up. The woman smiled back and patted Sally Sue’s hand. “That’s better, now.”

Sally Sue’s smile softened and became genuine. Her heart felt full and open. A trickle of hope poured through. She glanced at the hotel and across at the mercantile and whispered, “I need help.”

“Elvira. I told you to stay away.” Mr. Bjork came out of the hotel and swept his broom toward the woman, as if she were a piece of dirt.

“I’m not hurtin’ anybody, Mr. Bjork.” She blinked at him, dashed down the stairs, and started up the road out of town.

“Don’t go talking to that evil one.” He handed Sally Sue her lemonade. “Here comes your husband now.”

Cliff started down the street toward the hotel.

The redhead came out of the saloon and stood on the porch. “Yoo-hoo!” she called to him in a Southern drawl.

He changed direction and walked toward the woman, who fluttered her eyes at him and put her hands on the black lace on her hips.

Was that what Sally Sue’s ma had meant by a harlot, the kind of woman Sally Sue’s father had left them for? Sally Sue glared at Cliff, sat, and crossed her arms. Did men do offensive things with them, like the Bible said? Sally Sue should have been appalled, but instead she was mesmerized.

She imagined what it would feel like to be dressed in something so sinful and parade in front of men, the feel of lace on her chest and thighs, the smoothness of the satin. The green one, her favorite, was a low-cut corset with a skirt and a giant bustle in back. What would Mama say if she knew Sally Sue had these thoughts? What would Johnny Jones and his mother back home think if she sauntered into the church hall for a dance dressed in that? She smiled. Would he ask her to dance? Certainly, Pastor Grimes would grab a coat, cover her up, and whisk her home to Mama.

It was no fun being a persona non grata on account of her father. Like the time Johnny Jones had sat next to her at that church potluck. He had been so charming. But when his mother arrived, she had given him the evil eye and spoiled all the joy. Johnny had gotten up and moved next to her.

Sally Sue had never even been kissed. Charlie Flanders had tried to once. But as soon as he’d gotten close, with his smelly, hay-like beard, she had pulled away. He’d ended up marrying Gladys Goodings, anyway. Last time Sally Sue had seen them in church, the poor girl’s cheeks had been rubbed red raw.

Sally Sue stood. While Cliff was occupied, she should get down there to the sheriff and tell him who the outlaw really was. But Cliff turned around, stared at her, and patted his holster again. Did he have eyes in the back of his head and peepholes in his hat? How was she ever going to get away from him?