The Green Lace Corset, стр. 71
“Thanks for the hat.” She tilted her head up toward him, and it fell off. She plopped it back on.
He shrugged. “Why’re you thanking me? I have no idea where it came from.”
“Thank you, whoever snuck in here and brought this to me.”
“Now that the weather’s cleared, it’s time to start our garden.”
She’d never planted before. Even though there had been space in their yard, Mama had refused. Said it would be too much work, so they traded laundry washing for fruits and vegetables.
Sally Sue didn’t feel like getting dressed. She put her boots on and, still wearing her nightgown, followed Cliff outside to stunning blue skies. The mama deer and her twins grazed in the field. She glanced up at Sally Sue and Cliff; used to them, she didn’t pay them any mind. The twins had grown stronger by the day.
Beside the cabin in the garden patch, with strong arms, Cliff chopped the hoe in a rhythmic motion, releasing flaxen weeds from the hard dirt and flinging them aside. It seemed easy.
He handed her the rusty tool. “Your turn.”
She grasped the hoe and hacked at a clump, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Give it some elbow grease.” Cliff swung his arms to demonstrate.
She tried again with all her might, to no avail.
His warm body close to hers, his arms encircling her from behind, he put his hands over hers and moved them firmly onto the wooden handle. “Hold it like this. Now pull back.” He guided her hands up. “Think of someone or something that makes you angry.”
That should be easy. She swung, but the force didn’t have much gumption. At the moment, she hadn’t been able to conjure up any anger toward him.
“Try again,” Cliff encouraged. “Get furious.”
Surprised that her mama came to mind, Sally Sue attacked the weeds and they began to give way. She felt a powerful sense of accomplishment.
“Good job. Keep at it. I’m going to work the horses.”
She continued to hoe until the warm breeze picked up. A blue jay flew onto the barn roof and hopped up to its twirling weather vane. North faced south, east faced west, the four direction points rearranged.
A gale blew off her hat, and she chased it across the meadow.
“Dang it!” she yelled, frightening the doe and her babies, who hopped up and bounded away. She scooped up the hat and stomped into the cabin.
With her sewing scissors, she poked a hole on either side of the brim, draped a remnant from the trunk across it, and wove it into each hole, pulling it through. She stuck the hat back on her head and tied it under her chin, the silk smooth.
“That oughta teach you,” she said, and went back outside, where Cliff was brushing Roan in the round pen. “Hey, boy. I know you’re shedding.”
Hat snug on her head, dust blowing around her, she worked the soil until her arms grew tired, and then she tossed the hoe on the ground, bent over, and began to tug weeds out by hand. When there were no more, she stood back to admire her work. Gratification filled her senses like she’d never felt before, as she imagined the future plot yielding tall corn stalks, green rutabagas, and plump tomatoes. She could see herself as she cut them up, added them to a stew, and stirred them in the cauldron.
“Take a taste,” she’d say to Cliff, holding a full spoon out to him.
“Delicious!” he’d say.
She knew he’d meant more than the stew and shook the fantasy away. That day would never come, because she’d be gone by the time any vegetables they ever planted were ripe. With renewed energy, she tilled the ground. Before she keeled over from exhaustion, Cliff steered a wheelbarrow toward her.
“Look at all you’ve done. Let’s celebrate. Put your hoe down, and let’s have a hoedown tonight.”
“What?”
“Let’s have ourselves a hoedown. A dance. You’re from Missouri. You never heard of one of those?”
“Mister, of course I have.” She smiled at his enthusiasm, even though she was so tuckered out, she didn’t think she’d be able to walk to the cabin, let alone dance.
Inside, she knew she should start fixing supper. She’d just take a little rest first. She plopped on the bed and promptly fell to napping.
She awoke to a dove cooing. The setting sun cast a warm glow across the peaks. She’d slept too long and arose with renewed vigor.
Still in her dirt-stained nightgown, she didn’t want to don the filthy men’s clothes and had a hankering to wear something fresh and feminine. She pulled the red dress from the trunk.
She laid the dress on the bed, stepped out of her nightgown, and rinsed herself at the washstand. The cool water was invigorating. She donned the dress, tugging the puffed sleeves up to hide her shoulders and cleavage. She brushed her hair, now grown to her shoulders, and pulled it into an updo like she’d seen the saloon gals wear. It felt good after all that hard work.
After she finished fixing supper, she opened the door and called, “Come and get it, or I’ll feed it to the hogs.”
Cliff came in, carrying an armful of sage, the blossoms deep blue. He arranged them in a large canister and set it on the mantel beside the Indian items.
“Lovely,” she said.
He studied her. “You’re the lovely one.”
She felt her face redden and suddenly felt shy. He must have dunked his head in the horse trough to wash up. He was looking mighty fine. His slicked-back hair and smooth-shaven face shone in the fading light. He had also donned a clean denim shirt.
“Smells good,” he said. He lit the candles in the chandelier and sat at the table.
“Dig in.” She served them and sat down too.
He put the spoon in his mouth, and closed his eyes while he chewed. “Ooh-whee, this stew is tasty. You’ve