Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (35 page)
Tim wrapped the reins around the brake and said in a slow, quiet tone, “It’s a far sight more comfortable to point fingers at others.”
He’s saying I’m a sinner. Well, not just him. That Bible verse did, too
.
He turned to her. “When you put on britches and pretended to be a boy, it didn’t make you a boy. You fooled us, but God knew all along who and what you are. People can attend church, pay tithes, and do good works—but those are all props, and they’re masquerading. To God, even our best is nothing more than filthy rags.”
“That makes it all seem so hopeless.” She shook her head, as if to dislodge the troubling thought.
A mild breeze stirred, and a leaf fluttered to earth, then tumbled across the road. “That leaf fell from the branch. Short of a miracle, nothing will ever give it life again. Sin does that to us—separates us from God and carries us away. It doesn’t matter whether the sin is large or small—we’re deluding ourselves if we say otherwise. The only thing that gives life to our soul again is the miracle of accepting Christ as our Savior.”
Her thoughts were muddled. “It used to be so clear to me. Now it’s not. I must be more tired than I imagined.”
“You can sleep the whole afternoon away.” He took up the reins again. “But think about this some more.”
She nodded—not because she wanted to agree, but because Sydney knew it would continue to bother her until she figured it out.
When they reached Forsaken, Tim drove the buckboard right up to the porch. Merle and Gulp didn’t go to church, so they were pitching horseshoes. Both dashed over to the buckboard. “Lookit you!” Merle gawked at her.
Gulp shoved him aside. “Don’t pay him no mind, miss. You look purdy as can be. That’s gotta be one of them London gowns of yours.” He reached up to help her down.
“Don’t.” Tim’s curt voice made everyone freeze. “Your hands are filthy.” Both of the cowboys glanced down to confirm his accusation.
Sydney didn’t want the men to pull away. She laughed. “Dirt washes.”
“Not out of fancy duds. Not those kind.” Merle nodded at her dress. He looked back at his palms. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“I’d be honored to take both of your hands.” Sydney extended an arm toward each of the cowboys. Once their rough palms closed around her hands, she stiffened her arms and made a tiny leap to get free from the buckboard. The minute her boots landed on a step, she turned loose. “Thank you kindly, gentlemen.”
Merle grinned. “I heard tell you’re the one we ought to thank. Had us a fine breakfast today on account of you.”
Sydney raised a hand to hide her grin. Tim must have thought she was yawning, for he swept his hand toward the front door. “Syd, go on up and sleep. I’ll eat lunch with the men.”
Sydney escaped. She made it into the house and halfway up the stairs before she heard Tim bellow, “She what?!”
Sydney walked into the kitchen that evening and stared at the sight before her. Tim looked utterly ridiculous. He’d shoved a dishtowel into his belt to serve as an erstwhile apron. The fire in the stove was far too high—flames sneaked up beneath the burners. “I heard you moving around upstairs and decided to rustle up some chow.”
She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but Sydney worried they’d both get sick if he cooked for them. “Velma’s not home yet?”
“She got home half an hour ago. Practically cross-eyed from being tired. Ate a ham sandwich and dragged herself off to bed.”
“How is Mrs. Vaughn? And the baby?”
“She’s fine. Baby boy’s fine, too.”
Clang
. He plopped a skillet onto the front burner. “We’re having eggs for supper.”
“Oh.”
Tim shot her an accusing look. “Just eggs. No brains. Apparently someone gave half of them to Pancake for the cowboys’ breakfast, and the other half went home with the Smiths. Would you know anything about that?”
She didn’t bother to smother her smile. “Why, Mr. Creighton, it’s a pity Velma isn’t here to be a witness.”
“Afraid I’m going to strangle you?”
She shook her head. “You’d never hurt me. But it’s not often a man confesses he’s brainless.”
He gave her an outraged look. “For that, Fancy Pants, I’m going to burn your eggs.”
“You would have burned them, regardless.” She held the coffeepot beneath the pump and started to fill it.
“I happen to be quite adept at making eggs.”
“I thought hens laid eggs. You don’t look like a hen to me.” She paused a moment. “I haven’t figured out something, though. How do you know whether the egg is for eating or hatching?”
“You don’t.” Tim held up an egg. His huge hand dwarfed it. “You take your chances.”
“You cannot be serious!” Her voice reflected her horror.
Tim shrugged. Turning toward the pan, he changed his hold on the egg. “Why do you think Velma mixes brains with the eggs?”
“You are perfectly dreadful, Mr. Creighton.”
He quickly cracked half a dozen eggs on the side of the skillet and began cooking with practiced ease.
“I’m afraid your talents are being wasted here on a ranch!”
He slid the eggs onto a plate. “Much as I hate to confess it, this is the one and only thing I can make.”
“You’re welcome to join me while I’m learning.” Sydney cut slices of bread from a loaf. “Velma is far more efficient, but the Richardson girls—”
“Don’t press your luck.” He stuck the plate in the center of the kitchen table.
“They’re actually very sweet girls, Timothy. Truly, they are. Did you know that their mother and father were both orphans? Well, they were, and as nice as Mr. and Mrs. Richardson are, they never learned basic social graces. The girls simply need a little guidance.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “And I thought I was the one who believed in miracles.”
“You’re not going to start a debate on what to believe, are you?” Their discussion on the way home from church left her feeling unsettled. Tired as she was, she hadn’t slept well.
Tim’s eyes met hers. “There’s no debate, Sydney; I don’t have to convince you. If you seek the truth, it’s right there. God is faithful to meet us where we are.”
His response stunned her. She’d decided to fall back on the axiom that religion, finances, and politics were subjects best not discussed, and he’d dumped the whole thing back on her shoulders.
Tim seated her and took the chair opposite hers. He folded his hands and bowed his head. How many times had she seen him do that? But something struck her. Until she came here, prayer was merely a rote recitation that blessed food and asked for safety. When the vicar back home prayed, her mind wandered, so she couldn’t truly recall what came out of his mouth. She supposed he read the Bible—after all, it was his job, and he quoted from it. But other than the vicar, she’d never known anyone who read his Bible and prayed as Tim did.
Tim said if she sought the truth, God would be faithful to meet her. God was God. He knew where she was. If He wasn’t happy with her, why didn’t He do something about it? Thoughts whirled through her mind, and Tim’s “Amen” took her by surprise.
“Eat.” He pressed a fork into her hand. “Why do you look so bewildered?”
She grasped for the first excuse that came to mind. “There’s only one plate.”
“Yeah, but I don’t mind sharing. Eat up, Fancy Pants.”
She wagged the tines of her fork at him. “It’s the height of impropriety for you to address me in such a manner.”
He grinned. “Chalk it up to not knowing any better. I was an orphan, too.”
“You were?”
He took a slice of the bread and sopped the corner in egg yolk. “I was teasing, Sydney—but not about losing my folks. I did.” He took a bite. “But after you mentioned the Richardsons not knowing any better, I was smarting off.” He swallowed and grinned. “You’re fun to tease.”
“You are a scoundrel, Timothy Creighton.”
“If this were a court of law, I’d have to plead guilty to the charge. Do I dare throw myself on your mercy?”
She looked about and poked her nose high into the air. “Mr. Creighton, since Newgate Prison is too far away, I hereby sentence you to one evening of dishwashing.”
He glanced down at the plate they shared. “How many times do you expect me to wash this poor plate? If I spend a whole evening doing it, I’ll wear a hole in the middle.”
“So you’re not seeking mercy just for yourself, but for the china as well?”
“And the calf, too.”
“What calf?” Her eyes widened as she realized the cow they’d slaughtered left a calf behind. “I didn’t realize! Isn’t one of the other cows . . .” Her voice died out in embarrassment.
“Not when a calf is this old. I’m bucket-feeding him. It’s about time for him to eat, too.”
“Can I help?”
“It’s slimy.”
“You’re the man who told me once that a calf would someday feed a family for a whole winter. I daresay bucket-feeding a calf won’t be nearly as slimy as what you asked of me on that occasion.” When his eyes narrowed, she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“How far up can you roll those sleeves?”
Ten minutes later, her sleeve pushed clear up to her elbow, Sydney looked at a burnt orange, speckled calf. He bawled, and she crooned, “Poor baby!”
Pancake sauntered up with a bucket of milk and looked from Tim to her and back. “You sure of this?”
“Positive. Tim’s going to teach me what to do.”
“Hey, Juan!” Pancake windmilled one arm. “C’mon. Syd’s gonna feed the calf.”
Tim snatched the bucket from Pancake. “Sydney, give me your hand.”
He took her hand, plunged it into the milk bucket, then held it beneath the calf ’s mouth. Tim’s fingers slid downward, and he braced her wrist as the calf slurped her fingers into its mouth. His tongue and lips were warm and—
slimy
. Sydney refused to yank away. She turned her head. Tim’s face was right beside hers. She whispered, “Anything on my fingers has to be gone. Do I dip my hand again?”
“Sort of.” A lazy grin tilted his mouth.
Warmth stole through her. Then shock. Somehow, he’d lifted the bucket and drew her wrist and hand into the milk. The calf continued to slurp on her fingers. Tim lowered her hand a little at a time until it was completely beneath the milk.
“The trick is to learn to brace the bucket. After he drinks his fill, he’s liable to butt it.” Tim withdrew their hands slowly and had her help him hang on to the bucket.
“He’s so hungry!”
“Yeah.” For some reason, having Tim whisper their conversation felt right. Cozy. Sydney didn’t want to startle the poor, motherless baby, and apparently Tim shared that sentiment. His warm breath tickled her cheek. “He’s pretty big. Give him a couple of days, and he’ll stick his head in the bucket without being coaxed. He’s already nipping at a little grass, too. Won’t be long till he’s back out in the pasture full-time.”
“I can help until then. Pancake will have to show me how to warm up the milk.”
Tim lowered his mouth right by her ear. “He didn’t warm it, sugar. It comes that way straight out of the cow.”
Heat streaked through her as she gasped.
“No getting goosey on me.”
“Boss, Syd’s gone red as a pickled beet.”
Tim straightened up. “If I don’t miss my guess, Sydney’s fixing to argue about who feeds this calf.”
“Could just forget about it.” Pancake rubbed his big belly.
“It’s been a long time since we had veal.”
Sydney jolted, jamming the bucket far up on the poor calf. “You’d better be teasing, Pancake!”
Tim yanked the pail back down as the calf coughed, sneezed, and bawled.
“Look at what you did.” Sydney petted the calf. “You scared the poor little creature, Pancake.”
“Aww, Boss. Do something. She’s getting all sentimental.”
“Of course I’m sentimental. I just saved this poor starving little baby. If you had the merest scrap of compassion, you’d come apologize to Moustache so he would stop trembling.”
“Moustache?” the men echoed in disbelief.
Pancake moaned loudly. “She named that stupid hunk of beef.”
“He’s got a milk moustache. And Moustache isn’t stupid.
He’s merely ignorant. It’s our duty to be patient and teach him.”
Pancake folded his arms across his chest. “Just like we did with you when you were supposed to be a boy?”
“Exactly so!” Pleased he’d understood, Sydney beamed at him.
Pancake let out a whooping laugh and walked out of the barn. Tim thumped the milk pail onto the floor and kept clearing his throat as he, too, walked away.
“Just what,” she wondered aloud, “is so funny? Oh, Tim, come look! Moustache is drinking out of the bucket all on his own. Isn’t he brilliant?”
“Sydney, go back inside. Moustache isn’t going to need help feeding from now on.”
Sydney ran over to Tim. “You’re not going to listen to Pancake. You cannot. Moustache is not veal. He’s smart!”
“Sydney—”
“Oh, don’t you stretch out my name as if I’m testing your patience to the limit. You yourself discussed the matter with Mr. Richardson. It is a scientific fact that the premier animals produce the best offspring.”
Tim seemed to find the toes of his boots fascinating. Again, he cleared his throat. “Moustache is not a bull.”
“Yes, but he’ll grow up and—” Her voice died out as Tim shook his head.
“A steer, Syd. He’s a steer.”
Thoroughly mortified, she whispered, “I believe I’ll go in and wash up.”
Sydney scrubbed her hands, then washed the skillet and plate. Though sorely tempted to go hide in her bedchamber, she decided to sit on the parlor settee and read. If Tim came in, she’d look serene—even if it killed her. She lit a lamp and found the
Peterson’s Magazine
Mrs. Patterson had left.
Tim’s heavy footsteps on the porch warned of his impending arrival. She hastily opened the magazine. A mere moment before Tim found her, she realized she was holding it upside down. Hastily flipping the magazine over, she opened it and bowed her head over the page.
“Find something interesting?”
Forcing herself to sound nonchalant, Sydney noted a tiny little insert on the bottom of the right page. “A poem.”
Tim’s favorite chair groaned as the overstuffed leather yielded to his weight. “What’s it about?”