Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (5 page)

Eyes narrowed, Tim gave Pancake a piercing glare. “No job ever got done without being started, and we don’t leave things undone at Forsaken.”

“Someone’s likely to get hurt.”

“I’m painfully aware of that possibility.” Tim’s voice didn’t betray the acid churning in his belly over that very fact. “It’ll fall to me to work with the kid until Fuller shows up.”

Pancake let out a bark of a laugh. “Should I take wagers on which of you gets buried fastest?”

“Try, and I’ll see to it that you’re in a casket first.”

“Fuller’s too old to handle this one. Betcha he ropes you into finishin’ the job.”

“There’s where you’re wrong, Pancake. Some things a man doesn’t ask. This is one of them. Fuller is too honorable to saddle me with his dirty work.” Fuller Johnson had ministered to Tim when his life was in ruins, but Tim knew the man wouldn’t ever call in the favor. He added, “I’d do just about anything for Fuller. He knows it, too, but he’d lay down and die before he’d consider asking me to reform that boy—even if he is a relation. He wouldn’t ask, but I’m stepping up to the task.”

“Oh, I’ve known Fuller more’n long ’nuff to be shore he’d never ask. Fact of the matter is, we both know he’s too long in the tooth to handle the duty. That rheumatiz in his back and hands makes him too slow to do what needs doing anyplace but at that desk.”

“He owns most of the ranch,” Creighton clipped as he scanned the landscape with a mixture of awe and admiration.

“No one challenges that. He’s a great man. Fact still stands that you own a fair part and you do the bossin’. Just look—it’s the middle of calving season, and he up and went to Abilene. That says it all.”

Giving him an unyielding gaze, Tim said, “You’ve got work to do.”

Pancake walked off and teased over his shoulder, “So do you. Oh, boy, so do you, and I don’t envy you one lick of it!”

Sydney headed toward the two-story white clapboard ranch house. Wisdom dictated she leave those rough men and establish her place in the household, but pride demanded she do so with decorum. She refused to let the bossy one’s cold disapproval bother her. Nothing was going to ruin her adventure.

And what an adventure this was turning into! She looked about and smiled. The ranch seemed to possess miles of verdant land with fresh spring grass for numerous grazing cows. A fair number of wobbly legged calves stuck close by their mamas and bawled if they were hungry. Birdsong filled the air, and clumps of colorful wildflowers dotted the landscape. Living in such surroundings shouldn’t prove to be a hardship at all.

The weight of the valise pulled on her shoulder and arm. The servants here needed to be taught manners. They didn’t introduce themselves and not a one saw to her luggage. That last man needed to be set straight on a few issues.

Mama always said even the best staff slacked off when the master is
gone. From the topnotch condition of the grounds, the place must normally
be run admirably. Uncle Fuller’s not here now. Likely, that’s the cause of
their apathetic ways. Well—all but that surly one
.

Sydney fought the temptation to glance back to make sure she hadn’t imagined the black-haired man. She’d almost gotten a crick in her neck from looking up at him. The dust on his rugged blue denim pants proved he was a man who worked hard for his living. He smelled as if he’d been working hard, too. An acrid mixture of sweat and leather clung to him. At least he’d not offered her his hand to shake—though Sydney couldn’t be sure whether he knew not to be so forward with his betters or if he’d been ashamed of how filthy he was.

Realization streaked through her. It wouldn’t occur to that man to be ashamed of looking and smelling as he did; he was proud of it. It had earned him the others’ respect and obedience. A smile tugged at her lips. Being male was . . . unique. Fun, even.

Sydney angled toward the house and managed to peek at him one last time. Even from this distance, he looked capable of doing everything Buffalo Bill did in the dime novels.

Her boots clomped up each of the wooden steps of the porch. Off to the side, a four-foot-long swing hung from chains. Sydney imagined sitting there reading and enjoying a glass of lemonade. After her travels, she’d finally arrived and could divest herself of these miserable boots, order Velma to bring her something to quench her thirst, and—

“C’mon in!” an unseen woman hollered before Sydney reached the screen door.

A short, heavy woman in a blue calico apron lumbered up. She bumped the door open with her hip and wiped her hands on a dish towel. A thin stripe of gray by her left temple was scraped back with the rest of her inky hair into a lopsided bun at the top of her head. Intelligence sparkled in her coffee-colored eyes, and laugh lines proved she had a sense of humor. “You must be Sydney. Been expecting you. Got two extra bedrooms upstairs. Go on ’head and pick one. I don’t much care which. I’ll have to put sheets on the bed. No use in letting sheets go stale on a bed that lies empty.”

“Yes, I’m Hathwell. One of the hands mentioned your name. I believe it was Velma, was it not?”

“Was and still is.” She grinned. “Now get out of my hair. I’ve got plenty to do. Supper’s in an hour. I’ll holler once and only once. You show up or you go hungry. I’m not about to start toting water up and down the stairs for anybody, so you’ll have to pump your own from the kitchen if you want to use the washbowl in your chamber.”

She won’t start, so that means she normally doesn’t perform that task
even for my uncle. Well, with only one house servant, allowances need to be
made
. “I’ll see to filling my pitcher. Bert mentioned Uncle Fuller is in Abilene.”

“Yep. Be back in ’bout ten days, give or take a few. Depends on how the cure is going. Your uncle ain’t the kind to stick around and do any tom cattin’.”

The housekeeper’s frank acknowledgment of a man’s baser needs astonished Sydney. Her eyes widened, though she did manage to keep her jaw from dropping.

Slapping her on the shoulder and nearly knocking her down, the housekeeper cackled. “Boy, ain’t nothing old Velma don’t know ten times over by now. My mama ran a bordello down in N’Awlins. Nothing surprises me.”

“Out of respect for your sensibilities—”

Velma cackled even louder. “I don’t pull any punches. The hands out there know not to pussyfoot around me. I take no sass, and I don’t take any passes. Long as you remember those two things, you and me—we’ll get along just fine.”

“Fine,” Sydney echoed in an unsteady tone. She looked at the stairs with dismay. She knew full well that no young man would stand there and complain about the heat and dust and his aching feet, though she was sorely tempted to do all three.

“Kid, you’d best move on. Big Tim’s gonna be bustling through soon, and he’ll mow over the likes of you faster than a toad gulps flies.”

It was not a reassuring metaphor. Sydney shuffled forward. “I’ll locate a chamber and meet you for supper.”

“You do that. Tim’s going to give you a hard once-over. You ought to put on something a whole lot plainer if you don’t want to have him squirm all through the meal. He’s not a man to abide fussy manners and clothes.”

Sydney noticed the cowboys were all in shirtsleeves, but surely landowners would wear respectable attire and dress for dinner. “I’m wearing a simple cravat!”

Velma threw back her head and roared in the most unladylike display of sound Sydney had ever witnessed. “That was a good one. Now scamper on up and let me get back to work.”

Lugging the valise up the stairs tested Sydney’s mettle. Her shoulders felt as if they couldn’t bear such a burden for a second longer. Once she reached the head of the stairs, she walked straight into the first chamber and dropped the valise. Nothing short of a pistol aimed at her head would convince her to pick up that load again.

The bedchamber held a modest bedstead and a nice threedrawer chest with a carved mirror above it. Heavy green damask curtains swagged back from the window, and faded cabbage rose wallpaper finished the decor.

Sydney smiled at the room. She could spruce it up with a little attention and care. In truth, it was far prettier than what she’d planned to find in the midst of this wild place. The glimpse she’d gotten of the downstairs let her know the other rooms, though well worn, were tastefully appointed, too. Perhaps Texas didn’t entirely lack civilized touches. The mixture of refinement and commonplace struck her as oddly charming. Sorting out when to apply rules and when to cast them aside would be a delightful challenge.

But that challenge could wait. She dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Her feet ached every bit as much as they did after a long evening of dancing with several suitors. Heel, toe, sole, and instep all burned and ached. Struggling out of the boots, she rubbed her toes and decided to fetch a pitcher of water so she could wash up and soak her feet. After that, she’d unpack and find her most unprepossessing shirt.

As she reviewed Velma’s words and considered all of the men she’d seen, Sydney had an alarming thought. Big Tim would mow her over? Big Tim, as in Tim Creighton? That couldn’t possibly be the rude giant whom she’d seen already. Shaking her head to dislodge the troublesome thought, Sydney convinced herself the man outside was too . . .
something
to be the second-in-command. Terse and rough-edged and gruff and, well,
dirty
. Those very attributes convinced her whoever it was couldn’t possibly be in a position of authority. Cheered by that thought, she went in search of water.

Under an hour later, the clock downstairs struck. Sydney heard Velma’s call for supper and hastily smoothed her hair as she glanced in the mirror over the chest of drawers to ascertain if she’d done a sufficient job of binding herself. Twisting sideways, she craned her neck and examined the effect. A small smile tilted her lips as she gleefully judged, “Perfect!”

She left her room and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she practically got run over by an express train of a man who gallumped down the very same flight. His boots made a muffled thunder that carried an oddly rhythmic quality, and his large body didn’t seem to move at all from the hips up as those log-thick legs churned with surprising agility and grace. Once he hit the foot of the stairs, the stranger stopped and gave her a cool, assessing look. Without a word, he wheeled to the right and strode off.

She remained rooted to the stairs.

He can’t be Uncle Fuller’s partner. He can’t—even if he did clean up
into a respectable-looking man
. Truth be told, he cut a fine figure. For all of the refined gentlemen she’d seen in high society, none had ever looked half as imposing or innately capable of facing anything life might bring.

Following the scent of food, Sydney went in the same direction he had. With every step she promised herself Uncle Fuller’s partner probably invited the rude giant to be a dinner guest. Yes, of course. That was it. Heartened by that realization, Sydney continued on.

She stopped cold in the doorway.
That
man sat at the huge trestle table. Alone. He’d already started serving himself. He’d spruced up on the outside, but that was it. The man still failed to exhibit even a hint of manners.

Velma thumped a bowl of mashed potatoes onto the table. “Sydney Hathwell, have you met Tim Creighton yet?”

“Mr. Creighton?” Her voice cracked like an adolescent’s.

Grabbing for his coffee, Creighton nodded. “Hathwell.”

Velma shooed her toward the table with a few brisk sweeps of her hands. “Don’t just stand there. Your food’s getting cold.”

Sydney pulled out the chair and sat down. Unaccustomed to seating herself, she took several minuscule scoots to draw close enough to the table.

“We say grace at meals here.” Creighton didn’t pause for a response. He bowed his head. “Almighty Lord, we praise and thank you for this bounty. Bless Fuller and grant him your healing touch. In all things, let us be your servants. Amen.”

Though they usually didn’t pray at home unless company joined them, Sydney considered Creighton’s prayer lacking. She added a few extra lines of thanks for her safe arrival and begged the Creator for guidance and help. It looked as if she was going to need it. Mr. Tim Creighton was going to be difficult. . . .

I started out thinking this would be easy, but I was wrong. Well, the
challenge will make my time here go by quickly
.

As she slipped her napkin across her thighs, Sydney tried to approach conversation as she’d done back home. Civility might tame the beast a bit. “So, Mr. Creighton, where are your people from?”

“My people?”

“Yes. Your people. Your family.”

“I don’t have a family.”

The curt clip of his voice let her know to cease pursuing that line of talk, so she segued, “Pity. You’ve certainly done well for yourself. Forsaken appears to be a fine spread.”

“How would you know enough to make that judgment?”

“I walked the length of the road. The fence is well kept, and the house is quite stunning. Then, too, there are all sorts of cows everywhere.”

“Cattle—not ‘cows’—and they’re not everywhere. We’ve moved them to pasture off at the southeastern sector for the moment. Other sections are empty at present to let the grasses grow.”