Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (6 page)

“Oh.”

“Do you ride? Most gentlemen are trained at horsemanship, aren’t they?”

She fought the telling blush that heated her cheeks. Last night it had dawned on her that she’d have to ride astride. Such a skill must, of necessity, be altogether different from perching on a sidesaddle. Though she was quite proficient at riding in a lady’s saddle, straddling anything would be a shock. “I . . . er . . . excelled at studies. My time has been spent in academic pursuits.”

“Hence the smooth, narrow hands and a complete lack of any muscle on those spindles you call arms.”

The man shoveled food in like an animal! Nearly mesmerized by the precision with which he sliced off huge chunks of meat and devoured them, Sydney hardly felt the sting of his implied insult.

“Did you study anything of particular interest?”

“Oh yes. Greek history, Roman mythology, Latin, and poetry. I also appreciate fine art.”

“So much for the frills.” Tim took a big swig of coffee. “No one round here speaks Latin or walks around spouting poetry. Best painting in these parts is a sign in the feed store. Did you study anything useful?”

“I scarcely believe you’d find dancing or British history to be of practical application here in the West.”

“You got that right.” Waving a fork in the air and disregarding the fact that mashed potatoes plopped back onto the plate, Tim announced, “No one sits on their tail around this spread. You’re going to have to carry your weight.”

“I plan to do just that.”

“Yes, you will. You’d best be ready—because come sunup, you’re going to start earning your keep.”

“Mr. Creighton, I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ll also remind you that I’m not exactly a hired hand to be ordered about like some kind of liveried lackey.” She wiggled in her chair slightly, squared her shoulders, and dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “There is my position to be considered.”

Creighton leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and scowled. “Fancy Pants, you’ve got it wrong. That stinkin’ title of yours isn’t worth a hill of beans around here. I don’t care if you’ve got a crown permanently affixed to your head—you’d better slap a hat over it because you’ll still have to work.”

The man wasn’t just blunt; he was rude. He completely lacked couth. Sydney gave him a disbelieving stare.

He glowered straight back. “Fuller’s a hardworking man. He expects every man on Forsaken to earn his keep. You’re no exception.”

Sydney reared back at the force of his words. “I say, there’s no call to be uncivilized.”

“We aren’t civilized around here. Best get that through your head. Life is rough. Rugged. Hard,” he hammered at her in a harsh tone. “You don’t toughen up, you won’t survive. Pure and simple, the useful survive. The weak don’t.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Take it however you want, but you’re due up at daybreak. I respect your uncle too much to let him come home to an English dandy of a nephew. By the time he gets here, you’ll have learned enough to make yourself useful.”

“That’s only a week away!”

“Don’t remind me. I already have indigestion from watching you eat. You chew meat longer than a cow chews a wad of cud.”

Sydney’s fork and knife clattered to the plate. “That was less than appropriate table conversation!”

“Spoil your appetite?”

“It’s apparent nothing spoils your appetite. You’ve torn into a perfectly delightful meal with no more manners than a rabid wolf.”

“Wolves tear apart baby animals that are wet behind the ears. Don’t forget that, sonny.” Creighton took a huge bite, gnashed on it only half a dozen times, and swallowed while staring at her.

Sydney caught herself swallowing along with him.

Tim gave her a smile that showed every last one of his teeth. After that, there wasn’t any more supper conversation.

Sydney went to bed and lay in the dark, horrified. To be sure, the soft bed felt great, but her mind reeled with Tim Creighton’s actions. How could Uncle Fuller have left her to the vagaries of such a boor? A big one, too. She’d tried to convince herself he wouldn’t be worthy of a second-in-command position, and seeing him at the table came as a terribly rude shock.

The way he acted as if
she
were the problem galled her; yet, that was precisely his perspective on things—and he made no bones about it.
But if every man here works, he’s right. I’m useless
.

Sydney had to admit she presented a unique challenge to the man. He obviously liked Uncle Fuller and wanted him to be spared the pain of seeing a relative who was pitifully inept. Just what would this deception demand of her?

The idea of misleading others went against her deep sense of honor, but it paled in comparison to the appalling alternative of becoming Rex Hume’s wife.

Sydney determined she would have to be a man’s man and quickly realized she’d have to develop mettle to make it through.
I always did love a challenge
.

Chapter Three

The door rattled on its hinges from a sound smack, but Tim got no response. Velma yelled from downstairs, “Sun’s almost up! Get movin’.”

Tim wrenched the doorknob, crossed the small bedchamber, and grabbed the mattress. One quick flick of his wrists, and Hathwell tumbled through the air and hit the floor with a resounding thud. The kid let out a shrill yelp.

“Velma gave you a wake-up call fifteen minutes ago.” Tim dumped the mattress back down on the bed frame. Disgust twisted his features as he watched the kid clutch the rumpled bedsheets to his nightshirted chest. “Stop squawking. Get on your feet and get moving. If you don’t show up to eat in five minutes, Velma’ll use the flapjacks to slop the hogs.”

“Five minutes!”

Tim shot him a heated look. “Don’t ever expect me to tilt you outta your bed again.”

“I won’t!”

Tim didn’t stick around to listen to the kid whine. No use in both of them eating Velma’s flapjacks cold. He sat down to breakfast, said grace, and implored God to intervene with Fuller’s nephew. If ever a situation existed that required divine intervention, surely this was it.

Eight minutes later Tim watched in utter disbelief as the youngster carefully cut a single, tiny bite of a flapjack and daintily slipped it between his lips. The kid even crooked his pinkie like a fussy old woman. Tim propped his elbows on the table and fought the urge to bury his head in his hands.

“Eat up, kid.”

“I have gracious plenty, thank you.”

One flapjack and two rashers of bacon. How could that possibly be
enough? No wonder the kid is skin and bones
.

Hathwell scanned the table and frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t see the sugar or cream.”

“Black and strong enough to float a horseshoe—that’s how men drink their coffee. Finish eating. Work’s piling up.”

Piling up. Tim smothered a grin. After the words slipped out of his mouth, he realized he’d made an unintended pun. The stable reeked in the morning from the horses’ piles. Fancy Pants Hathwell might not possess a single skill, but that wouldn’t matter. Anyone could grab a shovel and muck out stalls—and that was precisely what Tim planned to assign the kid. Last night the conversation ruined Hathwell’s appetite. If he knew precisely what awaited him, he wouldn’t eat another bite.

Hathwell took a sip of coffee and cut another miniscule bite from his flapjack. “Organization is key to success. I presume you and my uncle have routines that keep matters well in hand.”

“There’s a general routine, but animals have a habit of putting a kink in whatever plans we make. There’s not a man on this spread who lacks the full array of necessary skills.” Tim gave Sydney a telling look. “I’ll see to it you learn the ropes.”

“Ropes!” The kid perked up. “That would be capital! I’d love to learn how to throw the lariat!”

Tim inwardly winced at how the kid pronounced it “larryette.” A Mexican
vaquero
, Juan called his a
riata
. Tim immediately discarded that possible term. The kid would mangle it, too. “It takes time, practice, and diligence to handle a lasso.”

“Well, then, I suppose once I become proficient with the larry-ette, I’ll move on to the lasso.”

“Lasso is another term for lariat.” Tim pronounced it
larryut
and hoped the kid would get the hint. “When someone learns the ropes, it means they gain proficiency in the essentials. You’ll tend other basics before you throw a lasso.”

The kid’s brows puckered. Tim couldn’t be sure whether it was from displeasure at that news, or from the sip of black coffee he drank. It didn’t matter. Either way, Fancy Pants Hathwell was going to endure plenty of things he didn’t relish.

“This is a cattle ranch, not a cotillion.” Tim rose. “Finish up and be quick about it.”

Sydney bolted to his feet. “I rarely eat breakfast. Shall we go?”

Tim gave no response. He pivoted and headed across the floor and out the door.

The kid scrambled to keep up with him as they went toward the stable. “I see the staff is hard at work. That’s commendable.”

“It’s expected.” Tim stopped and locked eyes with him. “Get this straight: they’re not staff. They’re hands or cowboys or the men—or punchers or pokes.”

“Very well.”

Tim scanned the kid and shook his head. “Whatever passed for men’s duds in London won’t cut it here. Baggy shirts and pants will get caught or chafe. Next time you go to town, get a few pair of britches and shirts that are boys’ size.”

Sydney’s jaw hardened. “Mr. Creighton, I happen to feel more comfortable in loose-fitting attire.” Then the kid added in a quieter grumble, “Besides, these
are
boys’.”

Tim nodded curtly and said nothing more. It doubtlessly galled Hathwell to have to buy boys’ clothing at his age. Hopefully, he’d soon have enough muscles and height to take up the slack in what he now wore.

There were men who never did get bigger than this. Wizened old Mr. Farber at the land survey office was a prime example. Then, too, that horse trainer over at the Franklin ranch wasn’t bigger than this. Tim knew some of it was a family trait, but he also suspected people were like crops. The ones that were tended and fed right grew best. Proper activity, training, and plenty of food might boost the kid into a sprouting season.

“I beg your pardon, but I didn’t understand what you just said.”

From Sydney’s comment and quizzical look, Tim realized he must have mumbled something under his breath. He shifted his weight. “Good food and hard work are what you need.”

“Velma’s cuisine is quite tasty.”

“Which leaves hard work.” Tim strode to the stable. “Bert!”

“In here!”

Sydney trotted alongside Tim like a spaniel pup. “My, look at the size of the stable! How many horses do we have?”

Tim couldn’t be sure whether the kid was claiming ownership or speaking in general terms. He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “The ranch owns two dozen. A couple of the hands own their own mounts, so the total tally is thirty-one.”

Syd’s eyes widened. “Thirty-one! I didn’t realize there were that many men here.”

“There aren’t. We keep three mounts for each man.” He shot Bert a look.

A slow grin creased Bert’s weathered face. “Back before the railroad was close, we kept five mounts per cowpoke.”

Craning his neck, Hathwell peered down the stable. “There aren’t that many stalls.”

Tim smacked him on the back. “Nope. Not that many at all. Shouldn’t take you long.”

“What shouldn’t take me long?”

Tim accepted the shovel from Bert and thrust it at the kid. “Muck.”

An eternity later, as she began to muck out yet another stall, Sydney shoved back a snarled tress. She shouldn’t have bothered to brush her hair that morning. The stable stank worse than an untended chamber pot. Just about the time she had a stall cleaned, the unmistakable noise of one of the horses relieving himself resounded in a nearby stall. For the first time in her life, she wondered if people who used crass language might not be cursing, but merely speaking a raw truth.

“Well, well, if it ain’t good ol’ Syd Hathwell.”

Sydney glanced over her shoulder. “Boaz.” She recognized the rangy black man from the brief introduction in the barnyard yesterday.

“Easy for you to recognize me, but I hardly knew it was you.”

Bert came over and elbowed him. “Don’t distract the kid. He’s got to concentrate hard to get the job done right.”

“Bet the kid wouldn’t recognize himself—not with a shovel in his hands.”

After Tim Creighton’s supper comments last night, Sydney anticipated the teasing and pranks that were bound to come her way. A woman would whine and chafe. A man would take it or even joke back. She flashed a cocky smile at him. “It beats scooping this muck up with my hands.”

Bert chuckled and leaned into a railing. “You’re gonna have blisters.”

“Future tense is unnecessary.”

“And you’re still shovelin’?” He grabbed a handful of her shirt and yanked. “Dumb greenhorn, wash ’em and put on gloves before you get something festering!”

“I didn’t bring gloves.”

“What man worth his salt don’t have gloves? Aww, forget it. We shoulda known you wouldn’t have something that sensible.” He turned loose of her shirt and strode to the far side of the stable. Yanking a pair of gloves from a dusty shelf, he looked at them and scowled. “These are gonna be too big. Blast, I ain’t never seen a man have such small hands.”