The Green Lace Corset

she’d lost last year after their breakup. Without all that yoga, the hooks would never have closed. She wished she had fishnet stockings to wear with the outfit.
As Anne slid back into her black boots, she heard Lola on the phone, asking, “How much for the green satin saloon number?”
“It’s only one hundred dollars,” Lola called. “Let me see.”
Anne stepped out from behind the screen.
Lola’s eyes lit up. “It’s made for you.”
“Here.” Anne turned around. “Would you please tighten the back laces for me?”
Lola tugged on them until they were snug.
“Thanks.” Anne leaned over and stuck her hand down the front twice, lifting each breast. “Gotta help the girls up.”
Lola’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve never seen that trick before.”
“Read it on a blog somewhere.” Anne studied her reflection in the standing mirror. Nice. A sexy hint of cleavage showed. She thrust out a hip and drawled, “What can I do for ya, fellas?”
Lola laughed. Anne handed Lola her phone, and Lola snapped a few photos.
Anne set her palms over the lace bows on the hips and slid her fingers down the satin below her belly button. A pale glow emanated within her and swirled slowly. The intoxicating aroma of sage filled the air. It had been so long since she’d been with Sergio.
She just had to get over him. Maybe they weren’t meant to be, but she now longed for a connection with someone special. Someone who would appreciate a green lace corset like this.
“Do you take credit cards?” she asked.

2
Missouri, 1885
Sally Sue’s heart felt as cold as the frozen river the train crossed over. Last night Mama had called her an old maid again. It wasn’t her fault that at twenty-five, she’d never been proposed to. And here she was, with no prospects, on her way to Emporia to take care of her sick aunt Sarah for a week once again.
A hazy morning sun shone outside over the vast prairie. Nearly the end of March; the grasses would sprout again soon. Face reflected in the train window, she felt her cornflower-blue eyes holding back tears. She removed her bonnet, put it on the rack above, and ran a finger through a ringlet. Mama said her hair looked like the color of dirty dishwater: “Comes from your father’s side of the family.” Sally Sue grabbed her tatting from the basket.
A toddler sitting across from her started to cry. His mama picked him up, rocked him, and passed her hand over his peach-fuzzed head. “Hush, Sampson.”
Sally Sue smiled at his ironic name. He soon quieted to a slow gurgle, grinned at her, and waved his tiny fingers. She put out her gloved hand, and he grasped it. Sadness clutched her heart. Without a husband, she’d never have a child of her own.
They both knew it was on account of her father’s having left them that they had such troubles, but her ma always pinned it on Sally Sue. Your father just didn’t like having a child around. You were always underfoot. That’s why he left. It’s your fault I had to take in laundry to make ends meet. You can’t sew worth beans; too bad your laugh is so loud; if you were prettier, you’d be married by now.
Ma had told folks father had been killed in an accident while away on business selling anvils, but the whole town knew the truth. He had run off with a hootchy-cootchy girl from the big city of Chicago.
The train blew a forlorn whistle as it pulled into a depot and stopped. The woman got up with her son, nodded at Sally Sue, and exited, leaving her alone in the car.
As the train chugged out of the station again, a tall man ducked inside, placing his hat and a leather saddlebag on the rack behind him. He sat across from Sally Sue, set a boot over his knee, and opened a newspaper on his lap.
She tried to tat. The man flipped a page in his newspaper. Out of the corner of an eye, she noticed that the nails on his long, strong fingers were neatly trimmed. She examined his spotless white shirt. The cutaway jacket revealed a neat vest and gold watch chain, but the bottoms of his striped trousers and boots were mud splattered. She liked the smell of him, though—hay and horse—and he sure was handsome. Was he the marrying kind? The kind Mama wanted her to get hitched to? He might even be in the cattle business.
Right before she’d left for the train depot that morning, they’d had another spat.
“Now, don’t talk to any strange men. You mind your p’s and q’s, girl.” Her mama had straightened Sally Sue’s bonnet.
“Mama, you know me better than that.”
“We don’t want neighbors’ tongues wagging about you.” Her mama always wagged her tongue about them with scowling gossip. If she despised them so much, why did she care what they thought, anyway?
In fact, since the robbery, Sally Sue hadn’t spoken much to anyone. Her mama was always telling her how to behave, but she was a woman now and could take care of herself. She’d made it through that incident, hadn’t she?
Whoo-whoo, the whistle warned, as the train careened around a bend, slamming her knee against the man’s thigh. She took her time pulling away, tantalized by the firm feel of his strong muscles rubbing against her.
He chuckled and kept his eyes on the newspaper.
She had a hankering to slip off her gloves, put her thumb in his carved cleft chin, and run her hands along those clean-shaven cheeks.
“I’m Sally Sue Sullivan from Kansas City.” She struggled to keep her voice from quivering. “What’s your name?” Mama would have a conniption if she knew how forward Sally Sue was being and that she’d lied. They didn’t really live in Kansas City proper; they were on the outskirts.
He didn’t look at her. “Cliff. Cliff from nowhere.” His gravelly voice sounded familiar.
“I’ve heard of that town but never been there.” She grinned.
He peered at her