Pacing back and forth, Tim thought of all of the possible things he’d mentally rehearsed saying and knew he wouldn’t use them. His boots made a double sound of heel-toe heel-toe as he continued another round. Finally stopping in front of Sydney, he abruptly demanded, “Have you ever kissed a woman?”
“What!”
Tim glowered at him. “The question was excessively plain. Have you kissed a woman?”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“I didn’t think so,” he sighed.
The kid squirmed worse than a bucketful of bait. Tim sat down directly opposite him in the matching winged chair and leaned back into its depth as he hiked one booted ankle and rested it on the opposite knee. He completely filled the piece, in contrast to Sydney’s skeletal frame creating a small slash of color in his. Without preamble, Tim rasped, “Are you one of those fops who prefers his own kind over a woman?”
The blood drained from the boy’s face entirely. “A what?”
The shocked look on the kid’s face made a wave of relief crash over Tim. Obviously he didn’t have that particular preference if he didn’t even know of its existence. So he was simply a late bloomer. Terribly late. Or maybe he was one of those men who earned a living with their intelligence by becoming professors or preachers.
Fuller’s going to want his kin to stay on Forsaken and rear a passel of sons.
“Kid, it’s high time you got off the settee and squired a few gals around. This Friday the town’s putting on a Founders’ Day shindig. You can mosey around and get to know folks. There’s a barbecue and a square dance at night. By then, you’ll have met some gals.”
“I don’t know any of your American square dances.”
“There are just a couple of basic moves, and the caller hollers them out for you to follow along. The gals will be happy to teach you. It’s a good excuse to get close to ’em.”
“It’s poor manners for me to approach a lady without an introduction. Will you—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell all the men to help out in that regard.
We’ll be sure you meet plenty of folks.”
Hathwell’s shoulders finally relaxed. “I appreciate your assistance. Shall I reserve Kippy as my mount, or do the men simply go pick whichever one they fancy each time?”
“Most of the men have a couple of horses in the remuda they prefer. No one says anything if you pick their favorite, but it irks them. Anything that goes wrong that day, they blame you.”
“I’d appreciate your advice regarding one or two horses I could ride that wouldn’t rile the men.”
A small thread of respect spread through Tim. Asking for guidance on the matter showed the kid had some common sense. “Fuller doesn’t ride much anymore. Kippy’s gentle, so your uncle rode him.”
“Could you recommend a different mount?”
Tim shook his head. “Fuller’s been gone a week. Horses need to be ridden. Seeing as you and Kippy got on well, it’s best if you use him for now. Enough talk. We need to get to work.”
The rest of the week brought hard work with it. Tim took his charge seriously and didn’t slack off for a single minute. From early morning to late night, he worked Sydney unmercifully. He ordered chores to be done and then made Syd redo them if he wasn’t completely satisfied with the results. He pushed and growled and demanded more of the kid than any of the other hands. Velma and the others finally made a few offhanded comments, but the glare he shot silenced them at once. He had a mission, and their opinions weren’t needed or welcome.
Fact of the matter was, the kid didn’t do half bad. In many ways, he’d become like a pesky little brother—old enough to get into trouble, small enough to lack the necessary abilities to do a grown man’s job. But little brothers eventually grew into valuable men. Fuller’s nephew just might have enough of Fuller’s blood in his veins to actually succeed at this life.
Chapter Seven
Rexall Hume paced back and forth in the study. Knowing snooty Brits preferred to do business within their own social circle made it essential to buy his way in—but that was too blatant and crass. Instead, he’d hired a lawyer to make discreet inquiries about English families with marriageable daughters. A list of their names soon landed on his desk—so Rex jumped at the opportunity to wed one. He’d expected a washed-out, horsefaced, stiff-rumped girl. Putting up with such a wife would be worth it for the money he’d gain. After all, he needed legitimate children, too.
He’d gone so far as to select Lady Hathwell, write her father, and seek his blessing. Things had gone all too well—too easily. Indeed, when Lord Hathwell unexpectedly died, Rex found himself trapped in a betrothal to a woman in mourning. The title fell to Sydney’s second cousin; male lineage and all that nonsense. Nonetheless, once a lady, always a lady. Sydney Hathwell still afforded Hume the connections he coveted. He’d waited a full year for her.
Finally, she’d come. A high-strung beauty, she’d shown the strain of mourning and travel when he arrived home that first evening. He’d thoughtfully given her a few days to rest.
Beautiful, graceful . . . but stubborn. That was a drawback. It kept her from marrying him right away. For almost a week, she’d been standoffish. Twice, she’d had the unmitigated gall to tell him they “didn’t suit.” He’d already invested a year and a half of his life and business waiting for her. He wasn’t about to start all over again.
In retrospect, he should have done a few things differently. He grimaced. Calling her by the wrong name had been an honest mistake. Leave it to a woman to get in a pique over such a trifling detail. He should have taken her out on the town. She could have paraded about in her expensive gowns and enjoyed the admiration and fawning of the local matrons. Aristocracy was undoubtedly accustomed to making appearances—and he’d not indulged her. It would have been wise—both for her pride’s sake and for furthering his business. Being seen together socially would have cemented her obligation to wed him, too.
He’d even given her the choice of marrying immediately or having a whole additional week to stir up a grand wedding. What more could a bride want? The butler and maids all attested to how she’d brought an extensive trousseau and a beautiful wedding gown. Tossing a few flower arrangements about a church and whatever other minor details she felt necessary could have been seen to in no time at all. For the right amount of money, anything could be done.
He’d put all of his plans aside for her sake, and he’d hit the end of his patience. He’d been honorable enough to delay the marriage, but no longer. As soon as he found her, Rex was determined to wed Lady Hathwell.
Indeed, he’d built his life around getting what he wanted.
A restrained tap sounded on the door to the study. The door opened. “Sir,” his butler intoned, “a Mr. Tyler is here to see you.”
“Yes, yes. I’m expecting him. Show him in at once.”
A man of middling height and weight in a dark blue suit entered. He’d blend in just about anywhere—unobtrusive, unremarkable. He swept the study with a keen gaze, then stared intently at Rex. Even then, he didn’t speak because the butler was still present. Good. He understood discretion.
As soon as the butler shut the door, Rex proceeded. “Tyler, you came highly recommended, and I’m relying on your discretion.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s my fiancèe.” Rex pulled the only picture he had of her from his desk drawer. “Lady Sydney Hathwell.” Hume paused.
“I take it she’s English?”
“Yes, yes.” He’s sharp. Good. “She’s gone missing.”
Tyler’s brow crooked. “Do you suspect kidnapping, foul play, or has she run away?” He accepted the picture.
“I’ve read the paper to see if there’s any mention of an unidentified young woman, and I’ve sent servants to the hospitals to ascertain whether she might have met with an accident and been unable to contact me. Nothing.”
Tyler nodded a curt acknowledgment, but he didn’t break eye
contact.
Hume finished answering the question. “Not many people knew she was in New York. Her arrival was quiet.” He forced himself to admit the humiliating truth. “She’s undoubtedly indulged in a fit of bridal jitters.”
Tyler’s face remained impassive at that revelation. He studied the picture. “A beautiful woman. Do you have any notion where she might go?” Tyler pulled a small pad of paper from his pocket. “I assume she has friends in town.”
Hume shook his head. “To my knowledge, she knew no one.”
Tyler’s brow arched. “How did you meet?”
Hume cleared his throat. “I was made aware of her and approached her father through an intermediary. Arrangements were made. Lord Hathwell died shortly thereafter. I permitted the lady to put off our marriage a full year in deference to her mourning.”
“Such arranged marriages, though not commonplace, occur.” Tyler tapped his pencil against the pad. “I’ll need everything you can tell me about her. I assume you’ve saved the letters she sent during that year.”
A beleaguered sigh exited Hume. “A distant male relative of hers who inherited the title sent a telegram, notifying me of the death. I received just two missives from her.” He yanked open the desk drawer again.
The parchment envelope still felt crisp. Faultless script flowed across the front of it. The black bordered single sheet of stationery inside read as though a timid young woman had strained to say much. In the first, she thanked him for his condolences. The second told him when to expect her ship to arrive.
After scanning the note, Tyler commented, “She’s a woman of few words. A rarity. Grief might account for the brevity of the first note, but the second is equally succinct. I’ve found such women are either secretive or painfully shy. Which would you say is more accurate in her case?”
“Neither.” Hume paced across the carpet and turned. A strange sense of déjà vu struck him. He’d done the same thing before, only Lady Sydney Hathwell had been standing where the private investigator now stood. “Supposedly, she’s well educated and capable of running a smooth household. Headstrong. I’d say she’s headstrong. Within the first week of her arrival, she informed me she didn’t feel we suited.”
“Temperamental?”
“Undoubtedly. Stubborn too. She tried to cry off of marrying me. I chalked it up to her being nervous.”
“Does she have any previous episodes of going missing?”
“Not that I know of.” Hume parted his hands in an embarrassed gesture. “Lady Hathwell came over to be my wife. She seemed to be of the mistaken notion that the trip was merely to see if we would get along. She was here just a week.” Looking down, he cleared his throat. “The last evening I saw her, I suspected I’d pressed her too hard and fast. She’s young—seventeen. I realized she probably wanted the pomp and fuss of a society wedding—regardless of the fact that she knows no one here. I granted her additional time for that purpose.”
“When and where was she last seen?”
Hume grimaced. “Six days ago.” He anticipated the next question. “I arrived home at dawn from a week-long business trip, expecting that she’d had time to quell her doubts.”
Tyler held up one hand. “You said she’d been here a week. Clarify for me, if you will—are you saying she refused to wed you twice on the day of her arrival, and it’s been six days since then? Or are you saying you were present with her for a week, then took your leave and she bolted at once?”
“Neither.” Hume shook his head. “I was home for a week, during which time she displayed her skittishness. The following week, she stayed as a house guest while I took an essential business trip. I came home last Thursday.” He recalled coming home to find Oscar trotting down the street. Dumb dog had a habit of chasing after carriages and bolting after cats. He invariably returned; Lady Hathwell would return as well.
“How would you characterize Lady Hathwell’s reception?”
Hume’s hands slowly curled into fists as he confessed, “It being so early in the morning when I got home, I didn’t disturb her. I’d scarcely been here an hour ere I got called away for an emergency.”
Tyler scribbled on his note pad. “And that was six days ago.”
Hume nodded grimly. “When I returned home last evening, my staff lined up in the expectation of greeting my bride. They presumed I’d arranged the emergency as a ruse in order to allow me to whisk the lady away in an elopement. It wasn’t until I arrived home alone that we realized she’d gone missing.”
“A transatlantic voyage runs five to six days. She’s had sufficient time to be back in Britain. Have you telegraphed her family?”
“No! No. There’s the possibility she’ll sneak away and hide in a friend’s country estate. If at all possible, I want this to be resolved without alarming her family.”
“She isn’t the first woman to get cold feet. I’ll do my best to have her back to you as quickly as possible.”
“You’re reputed to exercise tact and cunning. Discretion and speed are essential. Find my bride, Tyler.”
Chapter Eight
On Thursday, Tim pulled Sydney to the edge of the yard. She traipsed along beside him as fast as her too-big boots allowed. For all his bluster, Tim was an excellent teacher, and she’d started enjoying his way of explaining things.
He took up a lariat. “You have to learn how to rope. It’s an essential. In a few more weeks, we’ll do the branding, and you’ll have to carry your weight with a rope. It’ll take you that long to get good at it. Now watch how I knot this.”
He made it look so simple. His big, rough hands moved with agile grace. It took her four tries before she produced anything vaguely similar to his demonstration.
He gave her a grim look. “Sit here and practice up. I’m gonna go see to that cow over yonder. I don’t like the looks of her.”
He strode over and came back. Grabbing Sydney by the arm, he yanked her up. “Take off your shirt.”
“No!”
“Take it off, or I’ll rip it off!”
“Just try.” She swiped his gun straight out of his holster. His eyes narrowed.
A second later, Sydney lay flat on her back and Tim towered over her as he shoved the pistol back into his holster. Exactly what he’d done eluded her. He’d moved so quickly, it was all a blur.
“Don’t you ever draw a gun unless you aim to kill, son.”
The magnitude of her action sank in, and she started to shake. Fortunately, the cow bawled and diverted their attention.
Sydney scrambled to her feet.
Tim produced a pocketknife and hacked at her sleeve in a few rough motions.
“Whatever are you doing?”
“See that? The calf is turned wrong. Only one foreleg’s out.” He yanked off her sleeve. “The sleeve’s got dirt on it.”
“What does my shirt have to do with anything?”
“Your arm is thinner, and it’s long enough. Reach on up inside of the cow and fish out the calf ’s other foreleg.”
“You’re insane!”
“Son, that calf is gonna be winter chow for a whole family someday. His mama is one of the younger cows we’ve got, and she ought to be good for several more calves in the next few years. They’ll both die unless you get down to business. Now do as you’re told.”
“Lord help me,” she muttered as the cow’s legs buckled and she collapsed on the grass.
“At least you’re asking for the best on your team.” Tim stared at her. “Now get busy.”
Sydney took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and got started. Nothing had ever felt worse. Fighting the inclination to gag, she gritted, “This is worse than when Hensley Wentworth III pushed me into the Christmas pudding!”
“Trace the leg we already have. Go across the chest and find the other one.”
“I’m doing . . . the best . . . I . . . can.” She stretched farther.
“If it’s too slippery to hang on to, once you get the hoof, let me know. I’ll feed you a rope, a
nd we’ll noose the leg and fish it out.”
“That’ll hurt!”
“Do you ever stop complaining?”
Her eyes flew open. “I didn’t mean me. I meant it would hurt her or the baby.”
He nodded curtly. “Sorry.”
“Does . . . this . . . happen much?” She tried to take her mind off the sensations assailing her.
“More common with a first calf. She’s one hundred percent Hereford; most of the herd is mixed. Anything with Longhorn in it calves easily. Have you found that other hoof?”
Her eyes widened. “I have it!”
“Hold tight. Finesse it. Sometimes it helps to tug in and up a bit.”
Moments later, a sopping wet calf plopped out on the grass. The cow lowed and began to lick him. Covered in mess clear up to her armpit, Sydney gushed, “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful! It’s a miracle! Oh, look! He’s so cute! It is a he, isn’t it?”
“He’ll do. Back off and let her take care of him. If you get in the way, mothers reject their young. It’s best you just walk away. Besides, you’re a mess. Go clean up. We still have roping to work on.”
Sydney resisted the urge to pet the calf one last time. Instead, she got up, visited the pump, then went to her new chamber. She hated this depressingly brown, dark room. The chest of drawers was scarred, and the mirror above it gave back a dim, distorted reflection. The chamber lacked much sunlight since a tree grew close by. When the wind blew, a branch scratched at the window.
She sponged off and put on a fresh shirt. Thankfully, Velma did the laundry and managed to do her drawers and get them dry when everyone was too busy or too far away to see them. Velma was an absolute godsend.
Sydney grabbed a pair of apples and tossed one to Tim when she went back out. His disappeared in four huge bites. She nibbled on hers and watched intently as he tied his rope once more for the purpose of demonstration.
Once she tied hers, he taught her how to spin a small circle. She did fairly well at it, and she made every effort to quell her sounds of excitement. His disapproving scowl after the calving made her aware she’d gone too emotional on him. A man never let his feelings show, and she’d broken that rule. She made a mental note to monitor her reactions more closely.
Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 9
