Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (22 page)

“It wasn’t just him. Everyone else did, too!”

“I fear, dear, that he won’t care about that. He’s a man who stands on his own. You’ve duped him, and done quite a spectacular job of it, too. Take my advice and be as feminine as possible.”

“Won’t that make it worse?”

“Undoubtedly, but it is also your protection. He won’t hurt you, no matter how livid he may be.”

A low, rabid growl filtered up through the floorboards.

Helene fingered a tress into place. “He’ll behave himself. It may kill him, but he’ll behave.”

“Thank you all for your help. I do suppose I cannot delay my Waterloo.”

The madam patted her cheek and grinned. “The British won Waterloo, dear.”

They descended the stairs, and Tim stomped closer as soon as he saw them. He planted himself at the bottom and glowered at Sydney’s every single step. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Lady Hathwell, I presume?”

She inclined her head with a regal bow.

He strode up the last two steps toward her, unceremoniously grabbed her wrist, and started toward the door with her in tow.

Sydney dug the heels of her boots into the carpet runner. “Turn loose of me this instant!”

His eyes shot fire, and he continued to drag her along, completely disregarding the fact that they gathered several feet of carpeting since she stubbornly refused to lift her feet.

“I’m getting you out of here. Fuller’ll never forgive me for letting his niece spend five minutes in a saloon or a cathouse!”

Sydney yanked free. “I’ve already spent far more than five minutes here!”

“Don’t remind me.” Without warning, he simply bent, plowed into her middle, and tilted her over his shoulder.

Sydney couldn’t catch her breath. The saloon’s batwing doors clattered wildly as Tim stormed through them and outside. “Put me down this instant!”

Tim dumped her onto the buckboard seat. He scrambled up next to her and flicked the reins.

Sydney turned toward him and opened her mouth.

“Don’t get started,
woman
.”

“Don’t say a word.” Tim’s jaw jutted forward at an impossible angle, and he kept his eyes straight ahead. He’d had some powerful fits of anger in his life, but he’d never come close to being half this livid.

How dare she come down, looking for all the world like some sweet, innocent girl who belonged at a church picnic? She was in a dress, for Pete’s sake!
A dress!
It looked all airy and those short, puffed sleeves gave him a view of creamy skin.

She looked like a girl from every blessed angle. He felt like an absolute idiot for having missed out on something so obvious. Oh, the clues had been there, all right. He’d even commented on them. Her walk, her overblown modesty and smooth cheeks. The lack of height and muscle bulk, the squawks and emotions that simmered far too close to the surface. How could he have been so oblivious? So stupid? How could she have dared make a buffoon of him? The flames of anger burned higher.

A breeze made the perky blue ribbon in her hair flutter. That jaunty little final touch set his teeth on edge.

A blue ribbon—an award that indicated first place. And he’d been a first-rate fool. Here was living proof why he and Fuller agreed not to have women on the ranch. Inevitably, women got under your skin or into your heart—and left. Whether by choice or death didn’t matter. Once forsaken, a man learned to shield his heart.

Only Sydney Hathwell’s deceit got past that barrier. He’d treated her like a proteégé—and this was the thanks he got: betrayal.

The buckboard rounded the corner, and they were out of the town’s sight. Tim pivoted and locked eyes with the woman who bristled beside him. Her haughty look got under his skin. He needed to bring her down a peg or two, and he knew exactly how to do it. “Don’t take on any aristocratic airs with me, Sydney Hathwell. You’re nothing more than a liar.”

She twisted away from him. Fearing she might jump, he filled his fist with cloth from her skirts. “Stay put! You’re not going anywhere.”

She squared her shoulders and gave him a cold glare. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

He let go of her dress and wiped his palm on the thigh of his britches, as if doing so would take away the feel of that garment in his hands.

No matter what he did, it was a mistake. Grabbing her wrist on the stairs had been a mistake. Without the benefit of a shirt cuff between her flesh and his palm, he’d clamped his hand around her soft, slender wrist and known momentary panic.

Talking to her rankled—the pitch of her voice had gone from a crackling tenor to a distinct contralto. Even sitting near her and breathing vexed him because her hair now smelled of flowers.

He closed his eyes and moaned. He’d cut her hair. Yep, he’d done it, all right—lopped it real short with a knife in a single whack. Memories of how those several inches had the inclination to curl at the ends taunted him.

He felt her shift beside him. When her hip barely grazed his, she hurriedly pulled away. He felt burned by that fleeting contact. It irritated him that she acted as if the momentary and accidental touch soiled her . . . until he remembered resting his hand on her backside.
“You walk funny . . . start using your legs instead
of your rear. . . . Pull tight and don’t let it swish from side to side.”

A thought slipped into his mind and left him breathless. He’d dumped Sydney headfirst into a crumbling well hole!

Embarrassment and horror gave way to anger again. He’d discussed things with her and in front of her that no woman ought to hear.
“I’m going to wear that fancy polish right off of you and
strip you down until you finally figure out you’re a bull, not a steer.”

By the time they got back to Forsaken, Tim was stewing mad. They’d both been utterly silent for the rest of the trip, and hostility crackled between them. He pulled the buckboard right up to the front of the house and reached up to grab her waist so he could set her down on the porch. She glanced over to the other side of the bench, visually measuring the possibility of getting down on her own, and he knew full well what she was going to do. Lunging, he clutched her waist and gritted, “Don’t go making matters any worse than they already are.”

“They couldn’t get any worse.”

“Hey, Boss! Who’s the gal?” Pancake’s boots made a soft, plopping sound as he sauntered over.

“I’m wondering that myself,” Tim growled.

“Pretty lil’ thing,” Pancake announced as he came closer.

From the other side, Gulp paced by with an armload of firewood. He almost ran into them. “Oh, ’scuse me, miss.” He gave Sydney a big smile, then suddenly dropped the logs. “Syd? Is that you? It can’t be! It is! It’s Syd!”

“Now there’s no reason to go insulting the young lady,” Merle chided him.

“Doggone it! Take a look. A close look. It’s Syd, all right!”

All the men started to talk at once. Sydney wrapped her hands around Tim’s wrists and squeezed hard. “Put me down.”

Caught up in his anger, Tim hadn’t paid attention to how he’d kept his hands clamped around her slender waist and left her dangling a foot off the ground. He still kept hold of her. “Enough, men. It’s Sydney, all right.”

“Can’t be,” Boaz declared. “Syd got drunk and spent the night in the bunkhouse.” Boaz sucked in a loud breath. “I took her to a whorehouse! Oh. Begging your pardon, miss.”

Tim wasn’t sure whether Boaz was apologizing for his language or the place he’d taken Sydney.
What does it matter? Everything
that’s happened was wrong. All wrong
.

Merle cleared his throat. “We sent that girl headfirst down the well hole, too.”

“We’re all very aware of those facts,” Tim bit out. “Lady Hathwell has been several places and done many things that were far and away beyond the scope of a woman’s realm. As soon as she gives me an explanation, I’ll have her give you her apologies. For now, get back to work.”

As the men mumbled and walked off, Sydney trembled. “Mr. Creighton, you’re hurting me.”

“Not a chance,
woman
.”

Sydney closed her eyes, but a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Stop that right now.” His fingers tightened a bit more. “I’ve had more than enough of your acting. You’re not going to use your tears to twist me around your dainty little finger.

Hear me?”

Her voice came out in a tight, high shiver. “The rope burned my waist.”

A wordless sound of frustration tore through his throat. Instead of setting her down, Tim swung her higher and slipped her into the basket of his arms. He stepped closer to the door and noted that she was doing her best to keep from weeping. He’d been mad and held her far too tightly. Truth be told, he even felt a bit of a cramp in his left hand from it. Doubtlessly, he’d hurt her, and that bothered him. Regardless of how livid he might be, Big Tim never held with a man hurting a woman.

He softened his tone. “Calm down. I’ll get you inside and have Velma take a look.”

“I’ll be fine. Please just set me down.”

She looked far from fine. She’d gone pale as a winter moon, and the shimmer in her eyes accused him of having hurt her.

“I guess the cat’s outta the bag.” Velma bustled out of the parlor. “Tim, why are you carrying her?”

He glowered at her. It was bad enough he felt led on by Sydney’s ruse; knowing Velma participated only compounded his sense of betrayal. “You knew?”

“Wasn’t my business to interfere.”

Tim nearly bellowed, “That never stopped you from anything else!”

Velma crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight back at him. “Anybody who bothered to take a minute and get a good look would’ve known she was a girl. Don’t you dare think about blaming me for your own blindness.”

“Please put me down.”

“Hush,” he rapped back at Sydney. He then frowned at Velma. “She’s too young and empty-headed to have thought this through, but you should have known better.”

“I take umbrage at that remark, sir!”

“I told you to hush. Velma, take her things back to the room with roses. You’re gonna have to move into that room she’s been sleeping in till Fuller gets back.”

“Do stop acting as if I were some terrible burden!”

“I’m not acting. You
are
a terrible burden!” he retorted.

“What a perfectly rotten thing to say!”

Giving her a dark look, Tim bit out, “Leave it to a female to get her feelings hurt. I don’t care about your feelings. I’m hauling you upstairs so Velma can check you out. After that, you’re going to get your b—er, yourself back down into the study, and we’re going to have us a discussion.”

“I’m able to mount the stairs on my own.”

“Yeah, but I don’t trust you to obey orders.” For all of his anger, Tim didn’t give in to the temptation to dump her on the bed. He carefully balanced her in his arms. Once he stepped foot in the bedroom, he even turned a bit to the side to keep her feet from hitting the doorjamb. He lowered her gently until the bed took her full weight, then slid his hands out.

The housekeeper nudged him in an attempt to get him to leave the bedchamber. He planted his boots. “Take a good look at all of her. Every inch. Don’t let her sweet talk you into disobeying, either. Let me know if I need to send for Doc.”

“Doc? You’re overreacting, Tim. Now scoot off downstairs. Lady Sydney will be with you shortly.”

“One more thing before I leave here.” He sidestepped to the foot of the bed. “I’m not taking any sass on this, either. I’m pulling off your left boot and getting a look at the rope marks on your ankle. It’ll be in better shape than your waist, so I’ll at least have a gauge as to how honest you’re being with me.”

Sydney scrabbled toward the head of the bed. “You’ll do nothing of the sort! It’s indecent!”

“Tim Creighton, don’t you talk to her like that!”

“Aww, hush.” He grabbed Sydney’s boot and wrenched it off. Though the young woman struggled, he flipped her hem up and clamped hold long enough to get an eyeful of the way a snowy stocking hugged her dainty ankle.

“The boot leather protected me.” Sydney wriggled and squirmed. Her efforts were to no avail.

Heaving a loud sigh, Velma stepped up and pulled off Sydney’s stocking.

Tim scowled at her bare ankle. Lady Sydney Hathwell had the prettiest ankle he’d ever seen. She probably had it just to torment him.

“I’m no happier about this than you are.” She desperately tried to cover herself up.

Tim kept hold of her foot and tentatively touched the angry red line around her ankle. “You’re still marked. You didn’t have leather to absorb the chafing from the rope that sustained both you and Emmy-Lou on the upward haul. That means you’re marked a lot worse around your . . . um, middle.”

Once he let go of her, Sydney rolled onto her side and curled into a tight ball.

“Are you hurting that bad?” Guilt mounted. He’d been a fool to have missed the cues about her masquerade, and he’d pushed her far beyond her endurance. He’d been nasty tempered and rough ever since he’d discovered the truth. Tim fought the urge to pick her up. He wasn’t quite sure whether he’d rock her or toss her right out the window if he did.

“Get on outta here.” Velma pushed him to the door. “I’ll have her downstairs in a few shakes.”