Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (4 page)

She headed toward the counter. “Have you any newspapers?”

“Kid on the corner sells ’em.” The storekeeper pointed to the side. “I have a fine selection of books.”

Poems
by Emily Dickinson appealed to her, but Sydney refrained. “I say, are those penny dreadfuls?”

“Dime novels. They fly right off the shelf. You being English, you’d like Western heroes. Buffalo Bill’s a man’s man. Those two on the right”—he pointed—“are far better than the ones featuring Deadwood Dick.”

“Very well.” Sydney added the two thin orange-paper-covered books to her items. In the past, merchants presented her bills to Father. She cleared her throat. “What do I owe you?”

“Good deal on tobacco today.” A crooked brow turned the statement into a question.

“The gum will suffice.” Her valise loaded with her booty, Sydney boarded the train for Texas. Mile after mile chugged away. Page after page in her dime novels told of a brash man named Buffalo Bill and his hair-raising adventures.

She pluckily endured the gritty dust that choked her fellow travelers. As a matter of fact, it astonished her how easily she managed to take on the role of a young man. It had become almost a game. By studying and copying the men about her, she blended in as best she could, though she drew the line at spitting and wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

The farther the train traveled, the further the layers of civilization eroded. She’d originally considered Americans undisciplined, but as the miles and hours passed, she grew fascinated by their bizarre behavior and expressions. No matter where she was, they simply chalked up any gaffes she made to her English ways instead of looking past the britches and realizing her gender.

Sydney scarcely knew what to think about the wild territory through which they traveled. It was ruggedly beautiful, open and unpredictable. As the days passed and she spotted small outposts of “civilization,” she came to understand that Texas was a world apart from all she’d ever known. Her deception might not be quite as easy to pull off as she’d planned.

Gooding, Texas

Spotting the boy from the vantage point of his saddle, Timothy Creighton shook his head. He stretched, pulled off his hat, and ruffled his short hair in order to cool off a mite. The boy ambled along so slowly, he hadn’t made any appreciable progress down the road. Tim leaned forward and squinted, trying to take in more details. After a better look, he started praying what he thought he saw was a result of too many hours in the saddle on a hot day. A swig of water from his canteen didn’t change the view.

Fuller’s nephew was every bit as bad as Tim feared he’d be. Worse, if that were possible. The kid didn’t have a muscle on his twiggy body and could barely tote a stinking valise. Dragged his feet along the dusty road like a schoolboy, too. Mr. Fancy Pants Hathwell wouldn’t make it to the ranch yard for another hour at the rate he dawdled.

Unwilling to make the way even the slightest bit easier for the boy, Tim tugged gently on the reins of his palomino gelding and headed off in the opposite direction. He had time to go check on the water level of the pond before heading back home.

“Lord, if you’re of a mind,” Tim said as he tipped his chin upward, “I’d take it as a favor if you’d send Fuller back here early. I’ve got a bad feeling about that kid.”

“Will you get a gander at that?” Bert moaned as he saw the new man walking up the road.

Tim stayed in the shadow of the stable and watched. He’d come to the conclusion that his snap judgment wasn’t fair. The kid deserved a chance to prove himself. Watching how he got along with the hands would give Tim a good notion as to how he’d behave.

The men all followed Bert’s gaze. They did double takes, then openly stared for a long count. Disbelief painted their features, and disgust followed close behind. Fuller had warned them his nephew had been reared in London’s high society and probably knew nothing about hard living, but that scarcely prepared them for the fop who minced toward them.

“I seen an organ grinder once.” Pancake spat a wad of tobacco off a few respectable yards. “His monkey wore a jacket just like that.”

Everyone chortled at that pronouncement. It said more than anything else might. After all, no man worth his boots would be caught dead in a Christmas tree green jacket with glittering gold braid and gold buttons. Tim would shoot any idiot who dared make such a garment, then burn the offensive piece of trash . . . after salvaging those gold buttons, of course.

“Seems to me that monkey danced real purdy. Held a cup in his hand and begged. Wasn’t good for anything else.” Pancake scratched his ample belly and went on with his musing, “Coulda passed as this one’s twin brother.”

“The monkey—he had to be much more useful.” Juan squinted at the strange sight.

“Fuller didn’t really saddle us with that, did he?”

Gulp wiped his hand across two-day-old whiskers. His large Adam’s apple bobbed as he took one of the deep gulps that had earned him his nickname. “Couldn’t have known it’d be this bad. Drunk as a skunk, no one could ever imagine this.”

Merle broke in, “I saw something almost as bad once when I got clunked in the head. Came to with Widder O’Toole kneeling by me.”

Hoots of bawdy laughter met that assertion. Few things could be worse than being subjected to the Widow O’Toole. The woman had a tongue sharper than a razor and spared no words in giving her opinion about the evils of alcohol.

“I’m a-tellin’ you, the woman’s just addlepated. What man calls hisself a man if he refuses the offer of a few mugs of beer to quench his thirst?” More laughter egged Merle on. He strutted back and forth like a scrappy bantam, his bowed legs adding swagger to his gait. “I’ll tell the truth, though. Any man who overindulges and finds himself in Widder O’Toole’s clutches learns to pray for deliverance!”

The kid drew closer. “Ho!”

“Ho!” the men repeated in a shout of disbelief.

Mistaking their volume for enthusiasm, Fuller’s nephew beamed. “What a jolly greeting! I’m Lord Sydney Hathwell. My uncle is expecting me.”

“Lord help him, yes,” someone muttered in the sudden silence.

“It isn’t necessary to use my formal title. Americans don’t often do so, you know.” The kid smiled. “But yes, I do hope to be a great help to my uncle. As I mentioned, he’s expecting me.”

There was a momentary silence as everyone digested the fact that the stupid kid hadn’t absorbed the insult. “I’ll bet he ain’t expectin’ you,” someone else grated. “Some things aren’t ever quite what’s expected.”

Jutting out his chin, the kid asked, “Is my uncle out riding, or will I find him in the house?”

“He needed to go to Abilene. Be gone a week or so.” Pancake absently scratched his belly again.

“Then perhaps my aunt—”

“Sonny, Fuller ain’t never been hitched.”

“I see.” Dropping the valise to the ground and setting off a small cloud of dust, the kid swept the men with a haughty gaze. “Might you think to exercise the civility to at least introduce yourselves?”

The men had the grace to look a bit ashamed. They shuffled around, and Merle jabbed his thumb at each individual and identified gruffly, “Bert. Pancake. Juan. Boaz. Gulp. I’m Merle.”

Instead of shaking hands, the kid nodded curtly to each of the men. “Pleased to meet my uncle’s staff.”

Staff?!
Tim bit back a moan. The kid’s shortcomings could fill a catalogue, and he hadn’t been here for two minutes yet.

The men stared at Hathwell. Merle finally broke the silence. “Velma went to help Etta Sanders with her baby. Took a day and a half, so she probably didn’t get your room ready yet. Just go on in the place. Creighton’s due back any minute.”

“Creighton?”

Pancake nodded. “Tim Creighton. He and Fuller go back a ways. Practically runs the place. Owns a full quarter of the head and land, too.”

“I see.”

Taking that as a cue, Tim stepped out of the shadows. “This isn’t a tea party. You men get back to work.”

Sydney Hathwell wheeled around and gaped at him.

To keep from grinning, Tim ordered his crew, “Get busy! You’re not paid to jaw with Mr. Hathwell.”

The men disappeared without a trace.

Tim slowly stripped off his leather gloves, smacked them against his thigh, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Even after doing that, the sight before him didn’t change. If anything, the kid looked sillier with every passing minute. Before he said anything he’d regret, Tim ordered, “You heard the men. Go on up to the house. Velma’s home.”

The kid’s back stiffened and his chin rose a notch.

Accustomed to men following his orders, Tim stared back in silence.

The boy looked away. He stooped, lifted the valise, and nodded. “Very well.”

Though he decided to obey, the kid had to have the last word. His lack of size, strength, and knowledge were huge liabilities; but the attitude—Tim shook his head. A kink like that could get someone killed. The first order of business was going to be setting Fancy Pants in his place.

Tim Creighton watched the boy lollygag toward the house.

Pancake shuffled over. “
What
was that?”

“That,” Tim said in a funereal tone, “is Fuller’s kin.”

“How in the devil did Fuller happen to get saddled with a nephew like that?” The bunkhouse cook wagged his head from side to side in disbelief. “He’s prissier than any of the Richardsons’ six daughters!”

Tim grimaced.

“His chin is still smooth as a baby’s tail.”

“I noticed.”

Pancake yammered on. “Get a stiff wind going, and he’ll be teacup over toenails. I got a look at his hands. Smooth as silk, not a callus on ’em. I’ll bet he ain’t never done a lick of work.”

Figuring he ought to put an end to the honest assessment, Tim said, “He’s young.”

“Yup. Voice still cracks. ’Bout all the good he’ll come to in life is maybe bein’ a preacher. Knows fancy words and fine manners that’d make him a natural for that callin’.”

Tim shot Pancake a wry look and didn’t verbalize his thoughts. Much as he wanted to, it wasn’t right. After all, that puny pup was his partner’s nephew. This called for loyalty and discretion. “I can’t let Fuller come home to that pitiful excuse. We’re going to start whipping him into shape.”

“Miracles take more time than that.”

“I don’t know about miracles, but I do know about men.”

“Boss, you’re gonna have to look long and hard to find enough material in that kid to scrape together anything manly. I’ve seen women who looked more like a man than he does!” Pancake chortled softly. “Startin’ with Widder O’Toole.”

Tim broke into a fleeting smile, then glanced back at the house and grimaced.

“When Fuller gets back and catches sight of that pathetic excuse for a nephew, whatever cure he got in Abilene’s gonna fly right outta the window.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Tim’s face tightened. “I’ll do something.”

“What’s your plan?”

Tim’s voice took on deadly resolve. “Whatever needs to be done will get done. It’s going to be mighty unpleasant, though.”

“That’s plain enough to see, and I have eyes in my head.” Pancake tacked on, “I’ve seen two-bit chippies with more taste in their clothes.”

“Clothes can be changed.”

Spitting a small stream of tobacco at a dandelion four feet away, Pancake demonstrated admirable targeting skill. “Doubt he’s half as useful as one of them chippies.”

Tim compressed his lips for a grim moment. There were times when life just handed you nothing better than a boil on the backside when you had to ride all day, and this was one such time. It galled him, but Tim Creighton wasn’t a man to shirk his responsibilities or abandon his friends. He muffled a groan at the thought of what the next days would bring and resolved, “We’re going to start whipping him into shape.”

“Awww, Boss!”

“The Bible tells us to bear one another’s burdens.”

The cook’s face darkened. “That’s just one more reason I don’t warm a pew. Besides, if you’re quotin’ the Good Book, you might as well pay close attention to what it says. There’s a world of difference between bearing a burden and weathering a catastrophe.” Pancake flapped his hand toward the house. “That kid’s a catastrophe.”