Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (36 page)
Sydney silently read the title. Disbelief streaked through her. “You’d never believe me.”
“Because it’s you, I’d believe just about anything. Go ahead and read it aloud.”
Only two choices were possible: either she swooned or brazened her way through. Sydney drew in a deep breath. The poem was short enough, she could read the title and race through the eight lines all in one breath. She hoped.
“‘True Manhood.”’
Something suspiciously like a snicker erupted from Tim.
Sydney ignored him and kept reading.
“How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his only skill.
This man is freed from servile hands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, thought not of lands;
Yet having nothing, hath all.”
She looked up and flashed a smile at him.
There. That wasn’t
too dreadful
.
“Sounds like a lot of flowery nonsense to me.”
A little debate might help keep their minds engaged so she could get past feeling morbidly self-conscious about her stupid- ity in the barn. “It’s not nonsense. I found it refreshing. Of all people, I’d think you’d appreciate how it upholds honesty and truth.”
“Those lines were okay, but the rest—I can’t hold with it. I’m not lord of myself; God’s the Lord of my life. As for not serving another’s will—my aim is to serve His will.”
“Does everything have to come back to that?”
Tim studied her for a long moment. “For me, it does.”
“I did ask,” she admitted grudgingly. Tracing a line on the page, Sydney tried to change the course of the conversation. “I especially like this part: ‘freed from servile hands/ Of hope to rise or fear to fall.’ You’ve absolutely no idea how refreshing it’s been to not have to mind every tiny nuance and worry about each action. Even the most minor of infractions was cause for gossip back home. I never fully appreciated how stilted my life had become until I came to Texas. I don’t mean to say that the ladies here aren’t proper; they are. It’s just some of the petty rules for decorum aren’t adhered to with zeal.”
“Like what?” Tim hiked one ankle to the opposite knee and relaxed into his chair.
A flood of answers rushed through her mind. “Calling cards. I’ve not seen a single one since I arrived.”
“Then why all those fancy invitations for the sewing bee? You’re not making sense.”
“Those were for the greater good.” She smiled. “I’ve noticed the Richardson women are wont to simply traipse in without warning. Doing the invitations permitted me to broach the subject without being unkind. I treasure how neighbors here are so hospitable, but since the girls have made a habit of chasing after men, I hoped it would be a way of—”
“Reining them in. Good idea. So other than giving up on calling cards, what other rules have you ditched since coming here?”
“Oh,” she said with delight. “I no longer have to change clothing multiple times a day.”
“Changing clothes? Why?”
“There are morning dresses, walking dresses, tea gowns, dinner gowns, ball gowns, riding skirts, not to mention an Ascot dress, garden party dress . . .” She made a dismissive gesture. “Something appropriate for each occasion.”
She traced the sketch of a Japanese design for a chair-pillow in the magazine and felt an odd sense of relief that embellished items like this example were out of place at Forsaken. “I never realized how stifling all the rules were until I experienced such freedom here. The notion of ever again trying to be oh-so-veryproper every minute of the day is sufficient to make me do something drastic.”
Tim raised a brow. “Like donning britches and ranching?”
“It worked. At least for a while.” She gave a dainty shrug. Britches never gave her fits. Velma helped her into her gown this morning, and trying to get out of it alone required acrobatics the likes of which Sydney hadn’t ever tried before. Men simply didn’t know how lucky they were to yank on jeans and a shirt instead of wearing a plethora of underclothing, yards upon yards of dresses, bustles that made it impossible to sit comfortably . . .
“What are you thinking?”
He would ask that now
. “Nothing important. So Mrs. Vaughn had a boy. That makes two girls and three boys for them.” Sydney frowned. “I thought Velma said it was their sixth.”
“They lost a baby two years ago. Something was wrong with her heart, and she only lasted a few days. Velma said this one’s loud and pink, so he ought to fare well.”
Sydney studied Tim. Something in his tone bothered her. “Were you worried?”
He nodded curtly. “Bill took it hard, losing that little girl.”
“Losing my parents has been dreadful. I cannot imagine how horrible it must be to lose a child.”
“It’s bad.”
Tim’s quiet tone robbed her of her breath. She couldn’t ask, though. Once before, he’d mentioned he’d been married, and on an occasion before that, he told her it was a sore spot. She’d assumed his wife had been unfaithful. Sydney stared at him as a ghastly suspicion swamped her.
“Seven years ago,” Tim said in a soft, gruff tone, “cholera took my wife and our little baby son.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m so very sorry.” The words barely came out in a hushed whisper.
“Running off and starting a new life didn’t dull the pain. Time and God’s grace do—along with friends.”
The print on the magazine blurred. Tim’s big, rough hands closed the pages; then he handed her his red bandana. The settee creaked as he sat down beside her. “Coming here isn’t going to make you forget your loved ones. After a time, the nice memories linger and you won’t ache so bad.”
“How long?” she asked in a high, tight voice.
“The way you feel right now, even one minute is an eternity.”
The truth of his words hit home. No one had empathized as he just had. Sydney tried to contain her emotions long enough to run upstairs, but Tim didn’t let her off the settee. Wrapping his arms about her, he cupped her head to his shoulder and held her as she wept. When she wound down, Tim wiped the tears from her face.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Grief.” He tipped her face up to his. “Even Jesus wept when His friend Lazarus died.”
His words erased most of the embarrassment she felt. Still, she’d let her own grief overflow when he’d shared his own loss. “It’s ghastly—what you went through.”
“It was. Fuller was a stalwart friend to me, even while I shook my fist and railed against God.”
Surprise streaked through her sorrow. Sydney didn’t know anyone else had felt that way. “At my parents’ gravesides, the vicar said God gave and took away and we were supposed to bless His name. I thought that was a vile thing to say.”
“It’s from the Bible. Job says it. It took me a long time to be thankful for the time God granted me with Louisa and Timmy, instead of resenting Him for taking them away. Longer, still, for memories to bring pleasure instead of pain.”
Though sorely tempted to nestle close and draw strength from Tim, Sydney pushed away and smoothed her dress. “It’s . . . reassuring to hear it will get easier.”
“The most important things take time.”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily.” A winsome smile lifted her lips. “Mama and Father met and married within a day.”
Tim’s eyes widened.
She nodded. “Honestly. I suppose that is the proverbial exception that proves the rule.”
He chuckled. “I can’t blame him if your mother had half your fire and beauty.” He rose and started across the parlor. “Since you’re enjoying that magazine, we could get you a subscription. Either that, or
Godey’s Lady’s Book
. Do you have a preference?”
“Why, thank you,” she stammered. In her experience, men flattered women because they wanted attention. Tim had paid her the nicest compliment of her life and then had changed the topic just as abruptly. “Either magazine would be lovely.”
He cast her a sly smile. “I could recommend a few books on cattle ranching.”
Laughter bubbled out of her. He’d held her while she cried, yet now he cheered her up. “You, Timothy Creighton, are a hopeless scoundrel.”
“I might well be a scoundrel, but I am far from hopeless.”
Tim set aside his Bible and stared out the window. Faint streaks of lavender and gold tinted the predawn sky.
The colors
Sydney wears. And she’s living in darkness. Lord, she’s hurting and so lost
.
The floorboard at the head of the stairs creaked. Tim opened his door. “What are you doing up?”
Sydney turned and whispered, “Shhh. Velma’s sleeping.”
He picked up his boots and walked down the stairs with Sydney. As they reached the last step, he repeated, “What are you doing up?”
“I thought I’d start coffee, gather eggs, and check on Moustache.”
“It’s early.”
She shrugged. “I had a nap yesterday. Lolling about in bed is useless. Hot as it’s getting at midday, I’ve noticed you’re doing a lot of work earlier.”
He nodded. While she started coffee, he plopped down and yanked on his boots. “Don’t get attached to that calf, Sydney. He’s beef on the hoof, not a pet.”
“What’s wrong with having a pet?”
“A pet shouldn’t outweigh its owner.”
She smiled. “Moustache doesn’t.”
“If I were a betting man, I’d wager he already has a good ten to fifteen pounds on you.”
“Me?”
“He’s five weeks. A solid hundred and five pounds—maybe a shade more.” He stomped his foot into his second boot and looked at Sydney’s astonished expression. “No offense intended. You’re a slight woman is all.”
“I have no notion what I might weigh. I’ve never stepped foot on a scale, but that’s not the issue. You and Uncle Fuller own the animals. Compared to a tall, muscular man like you, Moustache—”
“Will pass my weight before Christmas.” Her crestfallen look tore at him. “If you’re that worried about him, come on out. You can make sure he’s bucket-feeding well.”
Once they were in the barn, he left Sydney to coo over the calf while he led one of the two milk cows to a stanchion. Sydney approached him. “If you teach me how, I can do that.”
Tim snorted. “In that dress?”
“I intend for the milk to go into the pail, not on my clothing.”
“You’d break your neck, trying to balance on a milking stool.” He pulled out the small log with a board nailed into a T-shape across the top.
“You thought I couldn’t ride or shoot, either.” She snatched it from him and started to walk behind the cow.
Tim yanked her back. “That’s begging for her to kick you. You’re right-handed, so you milk from the right. Bessie’s used to right-siders. If you went to the left, she’d pitch a fit.”
Sydney listened intently. “Thank you for that instruction. Now if you’d be so kind as to turn your head for a moment . . .”
“Why?” He scowled. “The stool doesn’t go underneath your skirts!”
“What would you know of it? You’ve never worn skirts.” She stuck her forefinger in the air and twirled it in a silent order for him to turn.
“Oh, brother.” Tim turned and prepared to whip back around and catch her as she fell.
“I suppose I should have the pail ready. Might you please hand it to me?”
Tim turned and knelt beside her. The crazy woman had managed to sit on the milking stool properly and even had her skirts artfully arranged to the side, out of the way. Sliding the pail in place, he wondered how he’d manage to tell her what to do without offending her sensibilities.
She tilted her head toward him but didn’t look his way. In the barest whisper, she said, “I’m glad you’re my friend. That way, I don’t have to be embarrassed about this.”
Friends. As a “boy,” Sydney had become a young protégé— a friend. Ever since he’d discovered the truth, Tim had put distance between them. Only she’d sneaked past his guard all over again. He couldn’t deny it. “Yes, Syd. We’re friends. Here’s what you do.”
A while later, she stood back and watched Moustache slurp milk from the bucket. “He’s such a bright calf, Tim. See how he’s taken to it?”
“Uh-oh.” Pancake sauntered over. “Syd’s getting mooneyed over that beast, Tim. Maybe I ought to get some chalk and mark him so she’ll see the ribs and roasts and steaks he’s gonna become.”
“Turn him out to pasture for the day.”
If only the calf were
female. I could have kept her as a breeder and made Sydney happy
. Tim fought the urge to reassure Sydney that the calf wouldn’t go to market. Kids who grew up on a ranch learned early on that the animals represented food, not companionship. Sydney planned to stay; she had to learn it, too.
“I’ll go gather eggs.” Sydney stopped at the door to the barn. “Pancake? Don’t bother with the chalk. Moustache is already marked like he’s supposed to become a saddle.”
Once she was out of earshot, Pancake kicked a bale of hay. “Blast it. Why’d she go and say that? Bad enough, she named him. Now I’m gonna feel like a snake when we drive him off to market.”
It should have been insignificant. Only Tim couldn’t get it out of his mind. Sydney had already lost everything. That evening she showed up in the barn, milked the cow, and fed Moustache. Moustache butted the bucket and doused her skirts.