Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1)

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ever since her true identity had been revealed, Sydney’s time had been filled, but the initial social whirl abated. She woke and wanted to be useful. Needed to be useful. Fuller and Tim didn’t think there was a place for a woman on Forsaken. Well, if all she did was act like a wilting violet, she’d confirm that opinion. She wanted to stay here; she still had to prove herself. Donning her everyday gown, she headed out to the stable. Tim considered her a liability; she’d prove otherwise. She’d learned to pitch in, and it felt wrong to do nothing other than arrange flowers, sew, and pay mercy calls.

  “What”—Tim’s voice vibrated with anger—“do you think you are doing?”

  Sydney didn’t turn around. Fingers gripping the shovel tight, she continued to muck the first stall. “It’s plain to see what I’m doing.”

  “You’re not doing this.” He yanked on the handle.

  Sydney didn’t turn loose. “I can still pull my weight around here.”

  Merle moseyed over. “Boss, tug o’ war is done with a rope.”

  “So is a hanging,” Tim snapped. He gave the shovel a jerk that nearly pulled her off her feet.

  Merle let out a low whistle and made himself scarce.

  Tim glowered at her. “You’ve already stirred up enough trouble around here. You apologized for what you did. Part of an apology is meaning that you won’t cross the line again.”

  She still didn’t let go. “Mr. Creighton, I apologized for misrepresenting myself, not for having done any work.”

  “You worked as a man. Don’t come out here and think you can do whatever you please as long as you’re in a skirt. Man’s work is a man’s. Now go back inside.”

  Slowly, Sydney uncurled her fingers and turned loose. “I meant no offense, Mr. Creighton. I simply wanted to help.”

  He heaved a sigh. “Velma can find something to keep you busy.”

  Sydney nodded and left. She’d made a bad miscalculation, thinking to meet him on his turf and continue on as if nothing had changed. All it did was vex him more. As desperately as she wanted to stay, she’d have to approach the problem a different way. Sydney stopped by the henhouse and gathered eggs before going back to the house. Even if Big Tim didn’t want her working as she once had, she’d find ways of helping out.

  They lived with a tentative peace for the next few days. Sydney busied herself with sewing. She’d always loved taking strolls, and the weather lent itself to her spending time outdoors. She’d taken a walk each afternoon, and Tim didn’t object. Each time she went out, she found more about the land to admire. She’d go a different direction, find a new vista, and had determined to buy a sketchbook and pastels the next time she went to town. Though she couldn’t paint well at all, she enjoyed drawing and could do a passable job when inspired. Forsaken lent itself to such emotions.

  Friday, Sydney woke early. She dressed and decided to go out for a dawn constitutional. As she descended the stairs, she sighed. The cowboy boots Tim bought her were far more comfortable than the spool-heeled, kidskin ankle-high lady’s boots she now wore.

  Once out of the house, she aimlessly wandered down the road. The birds warbled praise for the sunrise. Sydney glanced about, knew no one could hear her, and tried to whistle. No lady would ever attempt anything quite so vulgar, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something about the wilds of America that tempted a body to break free of strictures and restraints. Indeed, the energy she felt led her to break into a skipping pace that took her down the road until she had to slow to catch her breath. Other than her weeks posing as a boy, she’d never behaved in such a hoydenish manner.

  The springtime green had fallen victim to summer heat. In a matter of one week, the Texas landscape had changed dramatically. Knowing the only place she might find flowers would be in the field by the pond, she headed that direction.

  A bit farther down the road, she climbed over the fence and toward the pond. Busy enjoying the sights instead of watching where she stepped, her heel sank in a puddle of mud. She tried to tug free, but to no avail. After fumbling with the buttons, she got her foot out of her boot. Once liberated, she was able to twist the boot to pull it loose. Sydney stood in the middle of the road, studied her boot, and laughed. Since she didn’t have a buttonhook with her, there was no way for her to fasten it back on!

  One thing led to another. It made absolutely no sense to hobble about only half shod, so she divested herself of the other shoe and stockings. She’d never been barefoot outside. The grass felt like wet velvet, yet it tickled. Her toes curled at the icy feel, yet her shivers were of delight.

  She bent down, wiped her boot on the grass to clean it, then had to smear her hands back and forth to tidy them, too.

  “Oh, am I ever a sight!” she laughed. “Aunt Serena would have apoplexy if she saw me now!” The rigid rules of high society seemed so very far away. Glorying in the moment, Sydney started to pick wildflowers. She stuffed them into her boots until they were both filled with a profusion of Texas blooms.

  Tim frowned at Velma. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. I just woke up. Sun’s barely even broken the horizon.”

  “You check the outhouse and kitchen. I’ll go look in the henhouse. So help me, if she went to the stable . . .” He paced off and yelled, “Sydney!” The young woman didn’t respond, so he increased his volume. Still, she didn’t materialize.

  Velma and he met up again. “Tim, I checked her chamber. She didn’t pack or take anything. The window is shut. Her blue dress is missing.”

  His heart thundered like a locomotive. “Where could she be?”

  “Saints above, I don’t know.”

  “Fuller trusted me with her!”

  Velma rubbed the back of her neck. “Her boots are missing and her nightdress is up there, so she dressed herself.”

  Tim glowered at her and shook his finger. “So help me, if she ran off with one of Parson Bradle’s sons, I’m going to do something rash!”

  “Oh, stop worrying over that. Likely it’s nothing of the sort. We’ll find her. You saddle up and get going. I’ll rouse the bunkhouse.”

  Tim wasn’t sure what to think. Had someone kidnapped her? Had she run away? Worry ate at him. He didn’t bother to saddle up. He simply slipped a halter on Hombre and mounted bareback. If Sydney was in trouble, she needed help now.

  Men tumbled out of the bunkhouse. “Gulp, you and Juan go west. Merle and Pancake—go east. Burt and Boaz—north. I’m heading south. Keep an eye out, fire three shots if you need help. Two if you find her and she’s fine.”

  He set out, scanning every nook and peering around trees. None of the grass was trodden, and no fresh hoof prints were visible, so no one had slipped in during the night.

  He kneed Hombre to turn around a sharp curve in the road, then pulled him to an abrupt stop. For a moment, Tim stared at the sight before him.

  Lady Sydney, always so very correct and proper, stood in the middle of a meadow. The early-morning sun shone like butter, setting an infinite number of dewdrops into prisms and glitter. A chaplet of woven wildflowers wreathed her hair. She clutched her skirts so high, her bare calves were visible. The skirts of her blue dress swayed as she danced to and fro.

  Unaware of her audience, she puckered her lips, blew out, and made an airy sound. She shook her head, giggled, then tried again. This time, a slight whistle sounded. Engrossed in the attempt, she remained oblivious to his presence. The crazy, beautiful woman let go of her skirts, clapped her hands with glee, and let out a trill of a laugh before she tried once again.

  She stuck her arms out like wings on a bird in flight and sprightly scampered in a shaft of sunlight. Before he could call to her, she bent and rose again. She clutched her dainty boots to her bosom. A huge bouquet of wildflowers spilled from them in a colorful profusion.

  He’d never seen anything more beautiful. She moved with a dancer’s grace and smiled with childlike simplicity. Her boots full of flowers bespoke moments of
innocent self-indulgence. He watched her pucker and whistle once again. It was a pathetic whistle—faint, short, and toneless; yet she seemed inordinately pleased with her accomplishment. Tim caught himself grinning.

  “Sydney!”

  She let out a shriek of surprise. Her arms tightened around the boots, and the flowers convulsed. The sudden tide of color in her cheeks matched some of the blossoms she carried. “Tim!”

  Suddenly his appreciation of her appearance evaporated. He drew his pistol and fired into the air twice. She flinched with both reports and stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “I hope you’re happy. The whole ranch is out searching for you!”

  She hastened toward him. “For me? Why?”

  “I didn’t know where you were! I’m responsible for you.”

  “But I just went for a little walk, and I’m on Forsaken property.”

  “And how was I supposed to know that?”

  “I’m sorry you worried,” she said softly, her head bowed. “I’ll be more careful to let you know where I am.”

  Her regret didn’t settle well with him. Part of him wanted to give her a good shake for the vexation and worry she’d caused. The other part of him felt strangely warm and tender that she’d felt so confident and safe on Forsaken land.

  “Come on back out of there.”

  She nervously moistened her lips and drew closer to the fence that separated them. He watched as her features repeatedly went taut and her normally smooth gait lurched and swayed. He heaved a sigh. “Show some common sense, Woman! Dump out those flowers and yank your boots back on! You must be out of your mind to be barefoot out here!”

  She continued her transit. “I fear I cannot.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have a buttonhook with me.”

  Tim dismounted, climbed over the split-rail fence, and impatiently strode to her. He scooped her up, carried her back to the fence, and set her down on the top bar. He grabbed her boots, upended them, and ignored her small cry of upset as all of the flowers she collected littered the earth. “You had no business taking these off in the first place.”

  “I had no choice. My boot got caught in the mud. I had to remove it before I could free myself.”

  “So what? You could have put it back on.”

  “Out here? Where was I to sit, and how was I to refasten the buttons?”

  “You could’ve plopped down in the dirt. Your dress is already a mess.” He drew a stocking out of the toe of one of the boots. As it exited the shoe, it slid into a sensuous stream of sheer black silk. What business did she have wearing such a thing? The garter was dainty as could be—a soft, peachy rose thing that made him want to shake the teeth right out of her head. What business did an unmarried woman have wearing such lingerie?

  Mortified, Sydney grabbed the stocking and balled it up in her lap. “Sir!”

  “Hush and stuff your foot in this.” He ringed his hand around her ankle and twisted her bare foot into the boot. It didn’t want to go, but he forced it in place. He dumped the stocking out of the toe of her other boot, and it fell into her lap. He crammed her left foot into it. A small red slash still faintly marked her ankle—a reminder of how he’d sent her down the well hole. It fanned his temper. “You’re lucky you didn’t step on a snake or twist your ankle in a gopher hole.”

  She let out a strangled gasp.

  “What now?”

  Color washed her features. “My limbs are not to be discussed!”

  “You’re the one who had her skirts hiked up to Christmas morning when I came round the bend!”

  “You could have been gentleman enough not to look!”

  “I’m a man. I never pretended to be a gentleman.”

  “More honest a confession was never uttered!” She struggled to turn around and break free from him. Her skirt tangled on the splintered wood.

  “Not much of a getaway, there, Miss Priss.” Tim easily stepped over the fence, then stooped to gently tug the material free.

  “Thank you.” She hopped down. The wreath she’d so playfully woven drooped lower over one side of her brow.

  Tim’s mouth quirked in an amused grin. “Your, uh, crown is slipping, princess.”

  She snatched it off. “I’m not a princess.”

  His amusement evaporated. “There’s nothing regal in the least about you prancing off. You set me back on this morning’s work.”

  “I never asked you to search for me!”

  He strode toward Hombre, effortlessly mounted, and tipped his hat. “Fine. Then you can wander on home now.”

  “But my shoes!”

  “Get home and cool your heels in the house. If you try this stunt again, I’ll personally tie a bell around you like I do a wayward cow.”

  “A cow!”

  “I can’t be bothered with your fits and pranks.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion!”

  “And I didn’t ask for your presence,” he shot back. He kneed his mount. “I have important things to do. You get on home.”

  The whole day turned into one continuous headache. One of the new cowboys decided to settle an argument with his fists. Tim broke up the fight and sent that man packing. Richardson showed up a day early for the stud bull. Velma’s clothesline inexplicably fell over and had to be repaired. She grumbled the whole while about having to rinse all those dusty clothes again.

  Come suppertime, Tim headed up the porch steps. He halted and stared at Sydney’s lap. “What are you doing with those?”

  “Hmm? Oh. I helped Velma with the laundry today. I noticed your shirts required some mending. It seems the least I could do.”

  “You don’t need to bother.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Creighton. I’ve been doing embroidery, so whenever a color that matched your shirt was on my needle, I whipped up a few stitches. I’m almost done.”

  Sydney handed him a stack of four neatly folded shirts. “They’ll last you a short while. As soon as I have a few more garments completed, I’d be happy to make you a couple of shirts. I think something in a gray plaid would suit you nicely.”

  His wife Louisa had loved to sit in the sunshine and sew. He remembered the last thing she’d made for him: a gray shirt. He’d prized that shirt, worn it, and told himself it was like having her arms around him—but it wasn’t. Pain slashed through him.

  Tim scowled. His blue shirt lay on the swing next to Sydney’s hip. Other than the ones he now held, the only other shirt he owned was on his back. He didn’t need some highbrow English girl pointing out that his clothes were in tatters. The tip of her finger traced a penny-sized hole in the elbow of the last shirt. For just a moment, the corners of her mouth turned down disapprovingly, then they crooked back up into a smile.

  She pities me. His temper soared. “So now that you’re back in skirts, you think you can put on airs and find fault with us commoners? I work hard, and my clothes show it; but I’m not ashamed. I’d choose work over vanity any day.”

  Sydney’s smile melted into a look of bewildered hurt. She blinked, then stabbed her needle into the embroidery hoop and set it aside. Without another word, she brushed past him and went into the house.

  Tim stood on the porch and smacked his hand on his thigh in acute frustration. Dust swirled around from that action. The moment she got that wounded look, he realized he’d mistaken her motive. He was a coarse, big man, and she was a refined slip of a woman. How did she manage to get his goat? Just as bad, why was he being so rude to her?

  His shirts needed mending. He’d noticed it from time to time, but he was as hopeless with a needle as the Richardson girls were at a dance. The fact of the matter was, men walked around with their clothes in fairly sad shape most of the time. Ranching ruined clothes. Men wore their garments until they plain fell apart. It was just the way of things.

  Tim noted that she’d stitched small sprigs of forget-menots in the center of the embroidery hoop. It was charming. Like her. She’d been humming as he came u
p—atonal, berserk bee sounds that amounted to a poor excuse for music—but she hadn’t cared. She’d been happy. It had been sweet, coming home to that bit of cheer after a long, hot, dirty day. In a few terse, harsh sentences, he’d silenced that perky little woman and made her leave her flowers behind. The embroidery hoop with its still needle accused him of cruelty.

  Velma thumped a heaping plate in front of Tim that night and snapped, “Go on ahead and eat up. Lady Sydney seems to have lost her appetite. No use in good food going to waste.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “Sick of you. Doggone it, Tim! That little gal went and fixed all of your sorry old shirts without giving it a second thought. She mended my dishcloth, too. I had to haul her down from a chair because she climbed up on it so she could tack a ring on the parlor curtains that was pulling loose. You’re spouting off words to make it look like she’s put herself on some fancy pedestal and stands there jeerin’ at us common folks.”

  “No one asked her to act like some kind of nest-building housewife!”

  Planting her hands on her hips, Velma shot back, “You’d fault her if she sat around and twiddled her thumbs. The girl can’t win no matter what she does.”

  “Can’t a man eat in peace around here?”

  “I don’t see why not, but then again, I don’t know why a woman can’t sew in peace, either.”

  Tim glowered at her. She scowled right back. “Our gal’s feet are sore. I don’t know what possessed you to make her walk back all that way all on her own.”

  “She wandered out there. There’s no reason she couldn’t come back under her own steam.”

  Tapping her toe, Velma glowered at him. “She had stockings and buttoned-up boots on the way out. No stockings and loose boots are a recipe for a crop of blisters that’d make you wince, and she’s got ’em.”

  “Soak ’em and use a little salve. They’ll be fine in a day or so.”

  “We already did.” Velma sniffed. “I’ve got me a bad feelin’ ’bout her.”

  “She’ll come down to eat when she’s good and ready. You’re busy enough without having to fetch and carry for her.”