Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1)

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “Ahhh. The sewing bee.”

  “Nope. We decided to have it a week from next Tuesday.

  That way, we can announce it at church twice,” Velma said.

  “And it will permit me enough time to write out invitations.”

  Tim frowned. “Why bother? It’s a lot of fuss. Everyone will know about it.”

  Sydney smiled at him. “It’s all part of my grand plan.”

  Velma gave Tim a warning look. “Sydney promised to start teaching the Richardsons how to act like ladies.”

  Tim glared at Sydney. “Impossible.”

  “Timothy—” Sydney clasped her hands. “ ‘In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the impossible.”’

  “Let me guess: That’s another thing Cervantes said.”

  “It is, and it’s right. Just you wait and see.”

  The next evening, following a fruitful visit from the Richardsons, Sydney carried her picture-perfect pie to the table.

  Tim perked up. “Maybe you working with the Richardson gals isn’t such a bad idea.”

  Sydney laughed. “You may have the honors.” She set it down in front of him and gave him the server.

  Tim cut generous wedges. She sat and waited to take a bite of her own. She wanted to enjoy watching him taste the first bite. He used the side of his fork and cut off an enormous hunk, scooped it up, and grinned as he hefted it to his mouth. As soon as he started to chew, the grin wobbled, faded, and his chewing slowed. His eyes went wide; then his gaze slid from hers. He bravely swallowed but quickly took a big gulp of coffee.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sydney cast a helpless look at Velma, only to see the desperation paint her features as she tried to make her first bite disappear.

  “Oh no! What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Tim blurted out. His answer was too rapid, and the guilty look on his face made it clear he was stretching the truth. “That bite—it just went down the wrong pipe is all.” He gamely took another mouthful—but this one was remarkably smaller.

  She had to know for herself. Sydney took a dainty bite, and the moment she started to chew, she knew the truth. She choked it down, snatched up her teacup, and tried to politely rinse out the salty taste. “Oh! It’s dreadful! How did that happen? Marcella’s was delicious!”

  “It’s a mite salty,” Velma admitted.

  “It’s horrid!” Sydney wailed.

  Tim tapped his finger to the glittering crust and dabbed the pad of that finger to his tongue. “Salt.”

  “That’s what Linette and Marcella did,” Sydney passionately claimed. “After we crimped the top crust and cut the designs, we sprinkled sal—”

  “Supposed to be sugar, child.” Velma laughed softly.

  Tim peeled back the top crust and continued to eat the filling and bottom crust.

  “Oh, do stop! There’s no reason to suffer just to assuage my feelings! I’m not a child to be humored!”

  “Oh, come on, Syd! The rest of it’s just fine. Betcha you don’t make that mistake again, so it’s no big deal.”

  “I just wanted to do it right! Linette’s and Marcella’s were perfect!”

  Tim looked over the rim of his coffee cup. “They’re country girls.”

  “I hardly need to be mollified.” He’d just as much as told her she didn’t belong here. She’d show him. Sydney determined to impress him if it killed her.

  Tim leaned against a fence post and stared at the empty pastureland. They’d moved the cattle again this morning, heading after greener grass . . . as if such a thing existed. He’d mentioned to Sydney that they hadn’t had as much rain as usual— but added to the unseasonably dry weather was an early heat wave. Much more of this and the earth would be scorched.

  Though much of the herd was longhorn crossbred and would carry the heat tolerance and forage better than other breeds when food got scarce, things still looked dicey.

  The water level in the pond dropped significantly, and the area where he and Fuller once drilled looked dry as a bone. If Fuller didn’t show up in the next few days, Tim determined he’d send a telegram saying they needed to hire someone to come drill elsewhere. Others might sit tight and wait a little longer. Not Tim. Not when so much hung in the balance.

  He gazed up at the stars. Stars—those were predictable. Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion, the North Star—God hung them all, and that didn’t change. But the weather did. After years of good, it stood to reason that they’d experience some tough times, too. He and Fuller even agreed about setting aside money each year that would see them through a long, dry spell. If he could avert disaster by drilling now, he’d do it. Stauffer had been smart to drill a new well.

  Thinking of Stauffer and his well—Tim’s gut clenched. Remembering how he’d sent Sydney down that hole made everything within him revolt. Part of him wanted to rattle the teeth out of her head for having participated in that rescue; part of him admired her for the gumption it took. She’d done it, all right—and part of the reason was because he himself had knotted the rope around her and given her a speech about duty. So much could have gone wrong—she could have gotten stuck. The rope might have broken. The air could have run out. The hole could have crumbled and buried her and that little girl alive. She might have gotten little Emmy-Lou, only to have lacked the strength and dropped her. Any of the possibilities left his mouth as dry as the dust at his feet.

  Sydney. He didn’t know what to do with her.

  The pie fiasco after supper was only an indication of a deeper issue. A huge trunk had arrived—and gown after gown now spread across the settee and chairs in the parlor. And they’d only excavated halfway through the trunk before he left. Silks, laces, swags, and such—more foof and poof than he’d ever seen. All suited to a woman of refinement. The dresses she’d been wearing recently were just as much a masquerade costume as the britches had been. The real Sydney Hathwell belonged in drawing rooms, surrounded by men whose polished manners and bottomless bank accounts would pamper her. She no more belonged on Forsaken than a rose belonged in the desert.

  Only Sydney wanted to stay here. Or so she thought. Maybe it was a passing whim. Given more time and the lack of excitement and diversions, she’d soon grow bored. So far she hadn’t, but what did that mean? He’d brought her back here, telling her she’d stay and even help out her uncle. But they hadn’t talked about for how long. He’d intended it to be a permanent arrangement—had she?

  Tim cast a glance toward the house. Silhouetted in the window, Sydney tried on a hat. Women were fussy about their hats. Ribbons, netting, feathers, flowers—whatever struck their fancy, women stuck stuff on their hats. Louisa had one she’d prized. Depending on the season, she’d change the decorations around the brim. Though he always thought the whole matter rated as silly, she put great store in it—so he told her it was pretty. Sydney’s hatbox alone cost more than any hat a woman around here owned.

  Sydney took off her hat and shook her head. She’s not satisfied with it, and it’s better than the one she’s been using.

  Velma came toward her. Sydney popped the hat on the housekeeper’s head. Even in silhouette, Sydney’s reaction was unmistakable. She clapped her hands. Velma shook her head and started to remove the bonnet, but Sydney reached up to stop her. She nodded her head, then embraced Velma.

  Off in the distance, a rifle shot sounded.

  Tim pushed away from the fence post as he listened. A single shot usually indicated a coyote that’d gotten too bold. With water growing scarcer, the coyotes were getting more desperate. Three shots in close succession meant “come running.” A second shot sounded.

  Tim dashed into the stable, tossed a halter on Hombre, and rode bareback. Velma and Sydney stood at the foot of the porch steps. “Two shots?” Velma called.

  “Don’t know,” he yelled back. The lack of a third shot worried him. Just behind him, men who’d flooded out of the bunkhouse joined up.

  Almost two miles later, Tim spotted a rider in the distan
ce. From the wide brim of the sombrero, he knew it was Juan. Juan rode at a modest pace. That meant either there was nothing to worry about, or he was injured and feared falling out of the saddle. Tim kept his pace. When the distance between them narrowed, he cupped his hands to his mouth. “Well?”

  “Coyote. Spooked a cow into a prairie dog hole. Broke her leg.”

  Compared to losing a cowhand, losing a cow rated as good news. The timing could have been better, though. Butchering an animal in daylight was straightforward, even if it made for a bloody mess; doing it by lantern light would turn the task into a huge production. The other hands gathered around Tim. He instructed them to haul the carcass back to the barnyard.

  Returning to the house, he halted Hombre at the porch steps. “Lost a cow. I’ll go fetch the Smiths to help.”

  Sydney shook her head. “Don’t bother them, Tim. I’ll help.”

  Tim reckoned it would be less hassle to order Lady Sydney to bed than to deal with her reaction once she saw the blood and guts. Having her swoon or puke would make more work for everyone. But she’d shown her mettle several times. He owed her the chance to prove equal to this task, too.

  She stared at him. “It’s woman’s work.”

  “Sydney—” Velma grabbed her hand and tugged. “We’ll need all the help we can get. Go set as much water to boil as you can. Tim, the eldest granddaughter can watch all the children. Bring both women.”

  As dawn broke, Tim looked down at Sydney. Her hair was a riot of untamed curls, dark circles beneath her eyes tattled on her weariness, and he doubted her apron or dress would ever come clean. Oblivious to his assessment, she waved good-bye to the Smiths. “We’ll see you at church!”

  “Okay!” Jars and buckets rattled in the bed of the buckboard as it pulled away.

  Tim tipped her face up to his. “You sure you’ll stay awake through the service?”

  “Of course I will. It would be beyond rude to nod off.”

  “Given the circumstances, I think the preacher would understand.”

  A surprised laugh bubbled out of her. “I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of God. It would be horribly irreverent of me to go pay a visit to His home and ignore Him.”

  “Attending church is important.” He continued to look at her, uncertain if she was awake enough to understand what he felt led to say. “But when we accept Christ, He’s with us at all times, wherever we go. Our hearts become His home.”

  “I recall the vicar saying as much.” She flashed him a chipper smile. “He also said that our bodies were the temple of Christ. It was when he tried to convince everyone about the evils of gaming, drinking, and—” Her voice skidded to a halt. She cleared her throat and stammered, “About once a year, he used the pulpit to urge the congregants to be moral pillars.”

  “It’s more than just outward appearance—”

  Sydney burst out laughing. She looked down at herself. “I’m glad of that!” A rooster crowed, and she waved one last time as the Smith wagon rounded the corner and went out of sight.

  “You were right, Tim. Velma and I did need help.”

  She’d changed the topic. Tim wasn’t sure whether weariness or wariness was behind it. Either way, he felt as if the Holy Spirit was pulling back on the reins for now. Sydney needed time or sleep or space. Maybe all three.

  “It was so thoughtful of you to fetch the Smiths,” she continued. “You could have selected any of our neighbors, but you chose them, knowing they needed the meat.”

  “We all help one another out, Sydney. Trying to preserve that much meat would be an impossible task for just you and Velma. As it was, the four of you women worked mighty hard. Those women earned the meat they took home.”

  “Indeed.”

  He tucked a wind-tossed curl behind her ear. “You pulled your weight, Sydney.”

  A lazy smile tilted her mouth and her eyes glittered. “Teamwork, Boss.”

  She’d taken his praise and turned it back into credit for everyone involved. Tim nodded. “You’re a bloody mess, Fancy Pants. You can’t very well visit the Lord’s house in that shape.”

  “A coyote robbed me of my Saturday night bath, sir. If you wish to lodge a complaint, I suggest you take up the matter with him.” She picked up her skirts and flounced away. Her laughter floated back at him.

  “Never woulda thunk it.” Pancake shuffled over and shook his head. “Never in a million years. The day Syd dawdled up the road, I reckoned we was all gonna fight for who got to truss up the kid and shove him on the first train outta here. Didn’t take much time for the kid to show gumption—and now, look at her. If anyone tried to put her on the train, he’d have to fight me first.”

  Tim looked at the scrappy cook. By now, everyone knew Sydney had tried to leave and obtain a position elsewhere. Pancake was issuing a challenge. Earlier, Tim had wondered if she belonged elsewhere—but she’d proven herself yet again. Sydney belonged here. Staring Pancake in the eye, Tim drawled, “Fight him? You could line up after me, old man, but I would have already whupped the fool.”

  “Tired?” Tim walked Sydney toward the buckboard after church.

  She gave a dainty shrug. “A little.”

  Velma bustled over. “Tim, you go on ahead and take Sydney home. I’m spending the afternoon with Mrs. Vaughn.”

  “Shall I come, too?”

  Velma gave her a stern look. “You don’t belong there.” She turned to Tim. “It’s her sixth. I ought to be home by supper.”

  Tim tied Hombre to the buckboard and drove Sydney toward Forsaken. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “Sydney, don’t get your feelings hurt. Velma’s the closest thing we have to a midwife around here.”

  “Oh, as soon as the need dawned on me, I understood.”

  “Guess you’re more tired than you thought, huh? Don’t think you’ve ever been this quiet.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the sermon. Poor Leah. My heart breaks for her. How dreadful must it have been for her, being married to a man who didn’t love her.”

  “I suppose so. But she knew Jacob wanted Rachel, and she pretended to be her sister and fooled Jacob.”

  “But she was obeying her father. So you think she should have gone against his wishes? And don’t you think maybe Jacob got what he deserved, since he practiced trickery to steal Esau’s birthright?”

  Tim thought for a moment. “I don’t count on things being fair or justice to be seen in every situation here on earth. In the end God will judge us all. Even then, none of us will ever measure up. It’s only through God’s grace that we can be forgiven for our sins.”

  “The preacher spoke about that, but . . .” She sighed.

  “But?”

  “You know how sorry I am that I masqueraded as a boy. And you’ve forgiven me. That’s the only truly awful thing I’ve ever done. Nobody got hurt.” Sydney smoothed a few windruffled flounces of her lilac taffeta and wished her feelings would fall into order as easily. “I don’t understand why I’m not good enough to go to heaven. I always thought I was a Christian— I went to church, and Father was very generous with the vicar. I remember the vicar saying God would forgive our debts as we forgave our debtors. I thought it was a fair deal.”

  “We can’t earn salvation. Isaiah sixty-four, verse six, says, ‘But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.”’ He pulled the reins to the right. Once the buckboard went to the side of the road, he called, “Whoa.”

  Sydney looked up at him. “So that says we’re all sinners.” On the heels of that, an appalling thought hit her. “I’m a sinner? Me? I mean, I don’t intend to sound proud, but I thought sinners were bad people—like murderers.”

  Tim wrapped the reins around the brake and said in a slow, quiet tone, “It’s a far sight more comfortable to point fingers at others.”

  He’s saying I’m a sinner. Well, not just him. That Bible verse did, too.
>
  He turned to her. “When you put on britches and pretended to be a boy, it didn’t make you a boy. You fooled us, but God knew all along who and what you are. People can attend church, pay tithes, and do good works—but those are all props, and they’re masquerading. To God, even our best is nothing more than filthy rags.”

  “That makes it all seem so hopeless.” She shook her head, as if to dislodge the troubling thought.

  A mild breeze stirred, and a leaf fluttered to earth, then tumbled across the road. “That leaf fell from the branch. Short of a miracle, nothing will ever give it life again. Sin does that to us—separates us from God and carries us away. It doesn’t matter whether the sin is large or small—we’re deluding ourselves if we say otherwise. The only thing that gives life to our soul again is the miracle of accepting Christ as our Savior.”

  Her thoughts were muddled. “It used to be so clear to me. Now it’s not. I must be more tired than I imagined.”

  “You can sleep the whole afternoon away.” He took up the reins again. “But think about this some more.”

  She nodded—not because she wanted to agree, but because Sydney knew it would continue to bother her until she figured it out.

  When they reached Forsaken, Tim drove the buckboard right up to the porch. Merle and Gulp didn’t go to church, so they were pitching horseshoes. Both dashed over to the buckboard. “Lookit you!” Merle gawked at her.

  Gulp shoved him aside. “Don’t pay him no mind, miss. You look purdy as can be. That’s gotta be one of them London gowns of yours.” He reached up to help her down.

  “Don’t.” Tim’s curt voice made everyone freeze. “Your hands are filthy.” Both of the cowboys glanced down to confirm his accusation.

  Sydney didn’t want the men to pull away. She laughed. “Dirt washes.”

  “Not out of fancy duds. Not those kind.” Merle nodded at her dress. He looked back at his palms. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’d be honored to take both of your hands.” Sydney extended an arm toward each of the cowboys. Once their rough palms closed around her hands, she stiffened her arms and made a tiny leap to get free from the buckboard. The minute her boots landed on a step, she turned loose. “Thank you kindly, gentlemen.”