Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1)

by Hake, Cathy Marie

“I have to keep it a secret until January. Uncle Fuller made it clear he didn’t want women here—I mean you no offense. If I want to stay here—and I do—then I have no choice.”

  “The truth doesn’t bother me. I’m the only female he lets on the ranch. What you’re saying makes perfect sense now. Fuller wants nothing to do with women.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wasn’t here. Years ago, he got sweet on the housekeeper. They even planned to marry up, but the week before the wedding, the gal ran off with his lead man. After a time, he took on another housekeeper. Several months went by, and it came apparent she had herself an embarrassing problem. Most folks blamed Fuller and demanded he salvage her honor. Things got pretty ugly, but she up and popped out a nine-pound baby after knowing Fuller only seven months. That put the rumors and questions about Fuller’s morals to rest.”

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  “To his credit, Fuller paid for her to go back east to be with her family again. Other than me, he hasn’t had another petticoat on the grounds since.”

  “I can’t blame him. He’s certainly been through enough to make him wary, but Big Tim Creighton is an absolute bear.”

  “He’s got good reason, too.” Velma took a washcloth and attacked Sydney’s shoulders with gentle determination.

  “Are you going to tell me why?”

  “You sure that you want the gospel truth?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, you asked for it, child. Until he got that telegram, Fuller didn’t have any notion that his sister ever even had a kid. His rheumatiz is acting up something awful, and he was talking mighty serious about selling out his share of the ranch to Tim. Heaven only knows Tim deserves it. They’d gotten so far as to start dickering over the price, but then when the letter came, Fuller felt honor bound to step back and think about leaving his land to his kin.”

  “Oh, dear goodness!”

  “You got it. You stepped right into the middle of men’s business. No worse place to be.” Velma paused. “When they find out you’re a girl, they’ll be fit to be tied.”

  She finished washing Sydney’s back and dabbed a bit of some smelly ointment on the chafed spots. She stood back, nodded, and decided, “That’ll do. We’re going to have to truss you up again till you’re done with supper. Then you come on back up here and undo yourself.”

  “Thank you ever so much, Velma.”

  “It’s a pure pleasure, child. It’s high time someone set this rowdy bunch on their ears.” Velma headed for the door. “Dinner will be on the table in ten minutes. The way you’re moving, you’d be smart if you started down in five.”

  Velma joined them for supper. She even asked the blessing.

  Accustomed to someone reciting something from the Common Book of Prayer, Sydney found the unstructured way Tim and Velma prayed to be intriguing. They said whatever popped into their minds. Keeping her head bowed a moment longer, Sydney decided to try their approach and silently prayed, God, help me. This is much harder than I imagined. And God? Thank you for Velma.

  “You nodding off, Hathwell?”

  Tim’s wry tone made her head shoot up. Oh, dear. He’s gone back to being moody. “I was thanking the Almighty for something. Someone, actually.” She smiled at Velma. “You. I can say with all my heart, you are a godsend.”

  “Yeah, she is.” Tim’s agreement made Velma’s already broad smile grow larger still.

  Sydney pretended not to notice the emphasis. Logic dictated that by contrast, Sydney was a blight. I worked my fingers to the bone today. A few more days like this, and Tim Creighton will revise his opinion.

  Sydney cut the fried chicken from the bone and ate it with her fork. Tim gnawed his off of the bone and even made a show of tearing off several large bites with his teeth. He was on his fifth piece as Sydney finished her only one.

  “Kid, you’re going to have to learn to be practical. You use tools when you shouldn’t, and you don’t when you should.”

  “Might you clarify that?”

  He nodded sagely. “Use your hands to eat chicken. Plain and simple, it’s a hands-on kind of food.”

  “It’s evident you feel that way,” she stated in a tone that clearly reflected she wasn’t convinced to alter her dining habits in the least.

  “You didn’t use your head today. You lugged every last single rock.”

  “You told me to!”

  “But you should have thought about what you were doing.”

  She stared across the table at him. “Since when did manual labor require intelligence?”

  “Think, boy! Think! An ordinary wheelbarrow would have kept you from walking so much. You wouldn’t have had to carry much at all.”

  Sydney gave him a stricken look and moaned.

  “You should have rolled the larger rocks onto a board and had a horse pull them for you.”

  Her breath caught as shame and anger burned inside. She should have thought through those simple solutions. But she was new here. He’d purposefully let her half kill herself, all for the sake of showing her up.

  “The only thing you got out of today was sore muscles. I hope you learned something important, though. Ranching is hard enough. Think through each chore before you do it, then carry it out safely and well. It’s never good to hasten through only to have to redo it, but it’s equally foolish to spend more time and effort than necessary. Believe you me, there’s always plenty enough that needs to be done without wasting hours or energy.”

  Sydney gave him a cold stare.

  Indifferent to her reaction, he pressed on, “Real men who have done the work of the world used their brains long ago. They concocted solutions and inventions that simplify the work and make it easier to accomplish. Since you’ve never gotten your hands dirty, maybe you thought those tools were strange looking or quaint—but wake up. Use them. Someone a whale of a lot more experienced than you came up with the idea, and a bunch of wise ones followed suit. They’re the ones who succeeded.”

  Her face grew rigid. “Have you any other advice, or am I free to be excused?”

  “Go on and get out of here. Go to bed. You have a full day tomorrow. You’d best be well rested. It’ll be hard work.”

  “And you, Mr. Creighton?” Her anger got the better of her. “What will you be doing tomorrow?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I disagree. My uncle owns seventy-five percent of this ranch. Whatever is accomplished on the grounds ultimately concerns me.”

  “Don’t be too sure of yourself.”

  Sydney stared at him. “Likewise.”

  His eyes went dark. “You might very well have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but I’ve earned every last cent in my pocket.”

  Heat crept into her face.

  “No matter what percentage of the Forsaken partnership I hold, I’ll always do my best. You got your first chance to do the same today. A man rolls up his sleeves and pitches in. He looks for where the need lies and meets it. Sure, his muscles burn and his back aches and the sun’s hot. But he endures. That’s what makes him different from a woman.

  “Think about that, kid. The most important thing I did today was to force you to stop being an effeminate sissy and let you try out manhood for a change. Heaven only knows it’s so unfamiliar to you, you don’t know what to think about it.”

  A rueful laugh bubbled out of her before she could stop it. He was more right than he could possibly know.

  Tim planted his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and glared at her. His eyes glowed like smoldering coals. “Kid, I’m right . . . and I can outlast you. Just you wait. We’ve got almost a week left. I’m going to wear that fancy polish right off you and strip you down until you finally figure out you’re a bull, not a steer.”

  Mortified by his sordid speech, Sydney very precisely put down her silverware, rose, and left the table without a backward glance.

  Granted, she was tired when she went to bed. That was nothing comp
ared to how she felt upon awakening. Everything ached. Even her eyelashes hurt. A loud groan rumbled out of Sydney as she threw off the sheets. She couldn’t even jackknife into a sitting position. Instead, she rolled over and slid out of bed.

  After dusting her binder with the scorched flour Velma had secreted in the drawer, Sydney struggled to wrap the long cloth around herself. Every move burned and throbbed. Lifting her feet to slide them into the pant legs made the muscles in her thighs quiver. Making it down the stairs seemed to be a task of Herculean proportions.

  Afraid she couldn’t manage to keep hold of her knife and fork, Sydney abandoned all civility. She slid the egg and three rashers of bacon between two slices of toast. Lifting the affair to her mouth, she saw Tim’s astonishment.

  “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

  “I, Mr. Creighton, am borrowing a page out of your copybook.”

  He chuckled softly and left her alone.

  Sydney strained to think of any reason that she could get out of work for the day. Certainly, the excuse of a headache would buy her no sympathy. She’d eat brains again before admitting her muscles were sore.

  “Syd, I forgot I saw a speck of sumpin’ in your coffee cup. Hold up a minute. I’ll get you another.” Velma exited the dining room and returned with another, much larger cup. She set it down. “You drink that. It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

  At the mention of her chest, Sydney’s gaze darted downward. Everything was still in order. She looked flat as a tabletop. She realized Tim happened to be staring at that part of her, too. She could feel his gaze, even if she didn’t look up at him. She knew better. If she did, she’d feel the need to slap his face. Instead, she grabbed the mug and took a gulp.

  Heat coursed through her veins. She set the cup down on the table with a quick thump as she sucked in her breath.

  “Too hot? Sorry.” Velma winked at Sydney from behind Tim’s line of sight.

  On rare occasions back home, Father allowed her a few sips of watered-down wine. At parties, she invariably opted for punch. Whatever Velma added to the coffee could melt steel. Odd, though, that one mouthful made her feel warm all over and muted the streaks of pain she’d been suffering.

  Creighton took Hathwell straight out to the garden plot after breakfast. He tried to ignore the kid’s groan of disgust at the state of the ground. “We didn’t want grass here. It’ll choke out whatever Velma plants. You’re looking at the best way to get rid of unwanted grass.”

  They stared at the garden plot, and Tim gave Syd a sideways glance. The look on the kid’s face was thoroughly entertaining. A full two dozen cows stood within a roped enclosure. Indeed, they’d eaten off all of the grass. As if on cue, one nearest them answered nature’s call. Tim chuckled. “Besides, now you won’t have to haul over any fertilizer.”

  The kid gave him a dubious look. “I suppose I ought to be grateful for that labor-saving trick?”

  “You’re catching on.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re a plowboy today. I borrowed the Richardsons’ plow. You can use it and return it tomorrow.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Seven miles or so thataway.” He flipped his thumb to the right. “Gotta warn you, son, the man has daughters. Six of ’em. Not a single one of ’em even promised.”

  “You make that sound terrible!”

  “It’s worse than terrible. It’s downright dangerous.” Fancy Pants deserved fair warning. “Can’t go over there without that whole gaggle of geese squawkin’ and fluttering.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with having daughters! The world wouldn’t continue on without the female of the species.”

  “There’s females, and then there are the Richardson girls,” Tim intoned in a doomsday voice.

  “Aren’t they nice girls?”

  “Boy, that’s just the heart of it. They are nice. They’re the nest-buildin’, moon-eyed, ring-wantin’ kind of gals who trap a man into marriage. Every time I go over there, I feel like a bone that every single pup in the whole starving litter wants just for herself.”

  Sydney laughed.

  Slanting the kid a look, Tim brightened up a bit. “Hey! Did you want to do some courting?”

  “Me? With a girl?” The kid’s eyes bugged out. “Oh, my goodness, no!”

  “Plenty of kids your age do more than their share of sparkin’.” Memories made him smile. “By the time I was your age, I’d passed time with lots of pretty young things. Listen, son: The farmer has six daughters. All you have to do is check them out and find the one you like the best. It’s simple enough.”

  “And what about you?”

  Pain slashed through Tim. “I’m not about to get my neck in the noose. The last thing I’ll ever do is to get married again.”

  “A—” Hathwell shut his mouth.

  Tim had to give the kid some credit. He’d caught on and clammed up. Tim immediately redirected the conversation. “As I said, the Richardsons have six daughters.”

  “Six.”

  He nodded his head. “The youngest two are still playing with dolls. The older four are around your age—give or take a few years.”

  “The tone of your voice leads me to believe there’s something you’re not telling me.” Hathwell met his gaze steadily.

  So the kid’s got some instinct. Good. If I expect him to act like a man, I have to treat him like a man. Tim cleared his throat. “Those girls are so man-hungry, their papa ought to send out warnings before he takes them to town. I respect a good woman, and I won’t say a contrary thing about any gal who conducts herself with restraint even if it appears to be bordering on the teasing; but those Richardson girls . . .” He shook his head.

  “I thought you said they were nice girls!”

  “Oh, no doubt every last one of them is pure as the day she was born, but they all . . .” He winced. “I wouldn’t be caught dead keeping company with any of them. Fact is, neither would most of the other men.”

  “Put that way, I’m more than reticent to consider socializing with them. You’ll have to grant me the grace to bow out on that obligation.”

  Scratching his jaw, Tim admitted to himself that it was hypocritical to prod the kid into doing something when he wasn’t willing to do it himself. “All right. I understand your stance.”

  As they spoke, Juan and Gulp quickly herded away the cattle. Boaz hitched the plow to a sturdy mare, and everyone gathered around for a few minutes to watch Tim give Sydney a lesson in plowing.

  “Keep the plow tip in the ground. Don’t jam it straight down. Keep it at an angle. The soil turns right over. Keep the furrows straight. Velma won’t want a garden that looks like a drunkard plowed it.”

  Sydney muttered, “It would serve her right.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Keep the reins over your shoulder and talk to the horse. Guide the plow, and there you go.” Tim walked the length of a furrow.

  Once he turned over the reins, Syd got into position and tried to copy him. Fancy Pants’s nose wrinkled at the smell of fresh cow plops. Even worse, he intentionally stepped around them. After three feet, he’d already changed direction twice.

  “Looks like a snake done plowed that row, boy,” Boaz commented.

  Tim coughed to cover his own laugh at the observation. He’d thought the same thing. “The kid’s got to learn sometime.”

  “Yeah. Or somehow.” Juan studied the winding furrow. “From the looks of it, it’ll take a miracle.”

  Tim allowed the men their moment of humor, but they’d had enough. “You all have work to do. Get going.”

  The kid clicked his tongue and tried to slap the reins. He lost hold of the handles. When he bent over to pick up the plow, he jerked back his hand and made a sound.

  “Keep going, Hathwell. You have all day.” Tim wanted to bark an order to stop being persnickety. Reason dictated he refrain. Every few yards, the cows left ev
idence of having been penned in there. Sooner or later, the kid would realize he’d have to wash his hands and scrape off his boots at the end of the job. Once he did, the rows would be straight. He’d just better go back and redo the crooked ones.

  As he saddled up a snappy pinto, Tim considered what to have Fancy Pants do next. Some things, like tilling the ground, he’d have to learn by doing. Other things, he’d have to be shown. Teaching took time—time Tim didn’t have. Calving season was almost over. Two- and four-legged predators tended to pop up about now. He’d have to rotate the herd to another pasture farther away—and that necessitated scheduling a couple of cowboys to bedroll under the stars. Unwilling to order men to do something he wouldn’t do himself, Tim made it a point to be among the first to do the duty.

  “Lord, I don’t know why you dumped this kid on me. I don’t have the time or the patience for it. I’d take it kindly if you’d get Fuller back here so we could straighten out matters.”

  Fearing it would take her the better part of the day to finish a single row, Sydney clucked under her breath. The mare took that as an order to move forward. Sydney practically got pulled right over the plow. By the time they got to the end of that row, she knew she was in deep trouble. She didn’t have the strength the job required. She also didn’t have the arm span. The winged arms of the plow splayed so far apart, her hands barely reached them.

  She stood in the middle of a huge, stinky, mushy cow patty and surveyed the zigzagging furrow she’d dug in the ground. Swallowing hard, she then looked at the plow. “Stupid men. Stupid tool. Stupid garden!”

  A little sparrow landed on the ground and chirped at her. He happily hopped a bit, plucked up one of the worms she’d managed to reveal, and gobbled it up. He then cheeped a cheery little song.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll just have to keep at it. I’ve got to do something, though. . . .”

  “What in thunder are you doin’ here?” Bert asked as she entered the stable.

  “Getting rope.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have need of it.” Sydney had no idea ordinary rope weighed so much. She got the wheelbarrow, put two coils of rope in it, and went back to the garden plot. The first length she lay on the dirt to mark off a line. The second she used to make several circles from one plow handle to the other, much like coiling yarn around a partner’s hands. She then hung a bucket from it and put in four fist-sized stones. Taking up the reins once again, she slid them over her shoulder and ignored the plow handles entirely. She crossed her arms and leaned her weight on the rope spanning them.