Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (8 page)
“You, sir, are detestable.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.” He gave his reins a commanding yank. His palomino turned and cantered off.
Sydney stared at Tim’s back. As soon as her birthday came, she’d make him pay for his arrogance.
That evening the supper table remained devoid of conversation. The only sounds were of cutlery scraping the plates and glasses settling back on the wooden tabletop. Tim finished eating long before the kid did, so he sat nursing his cup of coffee. Finally, he breached the icy silence. “Listen, son, we’re going to have to get along. I don’t know what you’re used to, but men out West don’t mince words. Best get used to it quick.”
Sydney gave him a truculent look.
Tim took another sip of the coffee, then set it down. “It’s obvious you’re just a late bloomer. It doesn’t mean you won’t fill out. Some good, hard labor will help with that. After a month or so, you’ll have some muscles. Fresh air and plenty of meat will give you something to grow on, too.”
The kid’s jaw jutted forward. “Was that supposed to be some kind of olive branch?”
“You’re as prickly as a porkypine.” Heaving a longsuffering sigh, Tim rose. “Until Fuller gets back, I’m in charge around here. He asked me to take you under my wing. I’ll hold up my part. I refuse to let him down.”
The kid concentrated on buttering a slice of bread.
C’mon, Fancy Pants. Be a man. Say you’ll do your part
.
Sydney set down his knife with great precision, raised the slice, and took a bite.
I gave you a chance. You didn’t take it
. Tim shook his head in disgust. He strode from the dining room, out the door, and into the barn. Earlier in the day, he’d mudded a mare’s foreleg. A cursory check showed the swelling and heat had gone down.
At
least something’s going right
.
“Boss?
He turned. “Bert.”
“Wanted to tell you, I took care of the henhouse. Velma didn’t want to give me some cayenne, but I talked her into it.”
Tim folded his arms across his chest. “Just what did you have to promise her?”
“You know how finicky she is about her kitchen. . . .”
Tim nodded. The day was already a mess. Anything more wouldn’t make it worse.
“She wants feed sacks traded. Seems she has her heart set on a particular yellow one for a dress, and she needs six or seven more sacks just like it.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
A slow, sly smile tilted Bert’s mouth. “Glad you feel thataway. I’ll fetch the one she wants matched so you can be sure to trade for the right one.”
“Whoa! I said nothing about
me
getting them. You made the deal; you carry out your part of the bargain.”
Bert wagged his head from side to side. “I was just following orders. Did what I had to, to get the job done. My part’s finished.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t put up with anyone questioning his orders.
“Before you get too het up”—Bert held up both hands as if to ward him off—“you might think on how that Hathwell kid was the one who wanted the cayenne. Maybe he ought to track down what Velma wants.”
The plan had merit. Tim mulled it over.
“You gotta admit, it’s probably all that scrawny little brat’s able to do.”
Scrawny? Yes. Little? Uh-huh. Brat? You bet
. Tim resisted the temptation and glowered at Bert. “Chasing after feed sacks isn’t part of the plan. We’re going to whip that kid into shape.”
“Pancake said you were set on that.” Bert kicked a bale of hay. “No one’s gonna blame you if you change your mind.”
“What other people think doesn’t matter to me. My aim’s to do the right thing.”
“Awww, Boss.” Bert looked pained. “Some things can’t be fixed.”
“We won’t know that until we give it a fair try.” Tim thought for a moment. “I’ll let Velma take tomorrow morning off to go visit Etta Sanders and the baby. She can drop in on the Richardsons and Widow O’Toole. That will give her a chance to trade and get the feed sacks. Tell Pancake the kid and I will join you men for lunch.”
Smiling like a man who escaped the noose, Bert shuffled off.
The ranch never lacked chores that needed to be done. Tim looked about and mentally catalogued and prioritized what ought to be addressed. As Forsaken paid better than most spreads, the hands weren’t blowing-in-the-wind tumbleweeds. Having experienced men who stayed long-term rated as important. At the moment, Tim realized just how much he depended on reliable, seasoned hands. Any man could do any job.
And then there was Fancy Pants Hathwell.
What could the kid do? Getting him to round up cattle and drive them to the next pasture would be a disaster. He’d likely start a stampede. Stretching barbed wire took a steady hand and quick reflexes. If the wire snapped and snarled, a man could get cut to ribbons. The kid probably couldn’t figure out which end of a branding iron went where. No matter what task came to mind, Tim immediately eliminated it as a possibility for the kid. Frustrated, he strode back toward the house.
Lord, I’d take it kindly if you’d meet me halfway here. There’s got
to be something for Hathwell to do that won’t run into danger. Can’t be
something brainy. Any dolt can see the kid’s got enough schooling to last
two men. He’s got to develop his brawn. What, Father? What should I
have him do?
Tim leaned against a split-rail fence and stared as the moon started to rise. A streak of silvery-yellow light sliced the yard. Suddenly, Tim grinned. He knew exactly what job to give the kid.
As soon as Velma banged on the bedchamber door the next morning, Sydney vaulted from the mattress. She’d gone so far as to set out the clothing she planned to wear. Last night she’d begun to braid her hair out of habit. The very lack of length kept her from making that terrible mistake. If Tim Creighton ever saw her hair in a plait, she’d be . . . what was that saying she’d heard on the train? Fish bait. She’d be fish bait. Still, her hair had tangles the likes of which she’d never dealt with before. Her maid had always dressed her hair, so Sydney silently breathed a prayer of thanks that she’d chopped off at least part of the length.
Since she’d filled her pitcher the night before, Sydney quickly splashed herself clean, yanked the binding around her chest with vicious intent, and knotted it securely in place. She carefully tucked in the edges of the binding so she wouldn’t have to worry they might flap around. The shirt was so big, she didn’t need to unbutton more than the top fastener to slip it over her head. She made a mental note to repeat that timesaving trick. Fighting her way into the legs of some britches, Sydney decided men’s clothing wasn’t quite as simple as it once seemed.
Neither is being a man. Back home, the things men did seemed so simple.
They rode and went on fox hunts. Courted women, played billiards, and
went to gaming hells. Retired after supper to smoke and drink port
. She shook her head.
It’s so different here. It’s far more involved and complicated
than I imagined
.
She made it down the stairs before freight train Creighton rumbled down them. Still, he practically ran her over in the doorway to the dining table.
Velma poured coffee into three mugs and took a place at the table. Servants never sat at the table with their betters—but delight more than covered Sydney’s surprise. She liked Velma, and with someone else at the table, maybe Tim wouldn’t behave so impossibly boorish. “Good morning, Velma. Something smells—” She caught herself just before saying, “delicious.”
A
man wouldn’t be that flowery
. “—smells good.”
“Everything Velma makes is good.” Tim shot the housekeeper a warm smile, then bowed his head. He was halfway through asking the blessing before Sydney got over the shock of realizing Tim could pay anyone a compliment.
They began to eat, and Sydney wondered what Velma had set before her. The taste wasn’t objectionable, so she decided she’d inquire about the meal once Tim finished his and stalked off.
“Velma, Etta Sanders probably needs you to look in on her and the baby,” Tim said between mouthfuls.
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you take the morning and do that? You can trade your feed sacks so you have enough to make yourself a nice new dress.”
Velma chuckled. “I wondered how Bert was going to get out of that.”
Sydney gave her a puzzled look.
“Bert and I made a deal—he got the cayenne if I got my feed sacks. I shoulda known that man would weasel outta his end of the bargain.”
“He’s not weaseling.” Tim gulped some coffee. “You don’t want him out there trying to match fabric for you.”
“Why not?” As soon as the question popped out of her mouth, Sydney wished she hadn’t been so indiscreet. To her relief, Tim didn’t seem to have heard her.
As soon as he finished inhaling his portion, Tim looked up at the housekeeper with a beatific smile. “Velma, honey, that’s a meal to make a man’s belly sing. Got any more?”
Sydney could scarcely fathom this side of him.
Maybe he’s
just had a few bad days and he’s gotten over them
.
“I know it’s your favorite. Of course there’s more.” Velma padded off to the kitchen and came back with a skillet clutched in a bright red dishcloth. “How about you? Do you want anymore, Syd?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve sufficient. It is quite tasty, Velma.” She flickered a quick smile and took another bite.
Tim waited until her mouth was full. He patted his rockhard belly and stated with notable enthusiasm, “Yep. Nothing beats a good plate of calf brains and eggs!”
Sydney completely forgot to chew, and she didn’t really want to swallow, either. The very thought that she might have anything so horrendous in her mouth galled her. Tempted to bolt from the table and dash off to the outhouse so she could empty her stomach, Sydney sat perfectly still.
Then she saw the gleam in Tim’s eyes. It took all of her fortitude, but she swallowed that bite. Giving him a mocking grin, she commented as she scooped up a bite of egg, “I disagree. Please don’t mistake me, Velma. Your breakfast is lovely. It’s just that I prefer kidney pie. Blood sausage is good, too. I even like liver.”
“So you like unusual foods, eh?” Tim gave her an assessing look.
The back of her neck prickled. He was up to something, but she wasn’t going to allow him to trap her. “I do enjoy a small selection of several things. I’ve never been one to make a glutton of myself over any particular dish.”
“How . . . proper.”
She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin and echoed with a slightly exaggerated accent she dropped in register so it sounded more masculine, “Veddy.”
Velma burst into raucous laughter and slapped her thigh. “The pair of you deserve each other in the morning!”
“Three. You’re in here, too,” Tim reminded her.
“So I am.” She shot them an unashamed smile. “Lightning done set down in this house. There’s going to be heat and fire. You’re going to shake up the world, and I’m gonna sit back and watch the show!”
“You can’t sit back and do anything. According to Mr. Creighton, no one sits around Forsaken. He’ll give you perdition for being unproductive.”
Tim glowered at her for her audacity.
Sydney merely grinned back.
Velma grinned at Tim. “Cheeky little rascal, ain’t he?”
“Not for long.”
Sydney should have taken that as a warning. Tim ordered her to muck the stable again. The second she finished, he hauled her over to a barren patch of ground. “Velma wants a garden. Collect the rocks and lay them alongside the line I’ve scratched in the dirt.”
The patch of land was at least thirty yards long and half again as wide. Everything from thumb-sized pebbles to huge pillow-sized stones dotted the area. Sydney gawked at the collection of rocks in disbelief. “I’m supposed to budge those huge boulders?”
“Those aren’t boulders. I already moved them over there.” He waved his arm negligently toward a collection of rocks that might as well have been the foundations for a fortress. “I left you the smaller ones. Get busy. I want you to till and hoe it tomorrow so Velma can plant it the next day.” Tim gave her a walloping smack between the shoulder blades to set her into motion and strode off.
Her back ached and her hands were almost raw. Those lovely, long fingernails she’d clipped short now were chipped clear back to the quick. The strain of picking up the stones left her arms quivering.
A rock landed beside her. She reared back and looked around.
“Chow time,” Tim said.
Sydney stared down at the stone.
Couldn’t he have just called
me or used a pebble? That thing’s huge! He’s testing me. That’s what he’s
doing
. She nodded and dusted off her hands. “I’m hungry.”
The men all lined up, and one by one received a pie tin full of food. Pancake thrust a tin at Sydney. “Here ya go, Hathwell.
Puke on maggots.”
Revulsion streaked through her.
Tim gave her shoulder a jostle and chuckled. “Pancake likes to give his food fancy-sounding names.”
“He’s quite . . . descriptive.” Sydney blinked at the tin and forced herself to smile. Just about the time she’d decided Tim Creighton had no redeeming qualities, he’d saved her from making a fool of herself.
