Three. She’d only done three so far. She added more. “Three. No, wait. He went south seven or eight miles to dowse for a rancher there. I heard he found another there, too. That makes four. Tim’s decided we need to drill another well.”
Fuller nodded. “Yep. Hottest part of the year isn’t even close yet. Reminds me of the summer of eighty-five.”
Velma said they were tripling the recipe. That meant she needed fifteen tablespoons.
Fuller chuckled. “Ephraim’s going to boast that he’s up to seventeen now, but I reckon it’s closer to fifteen. Still, that’s nothing to sneeze at. He can make ours his sixteenth.”
Fifteen. She’d measured in fifteen. Or was it fourteen? At that point, what difference would one more spoonful make? Sydney added one last tablespoon of chili and grabbed the oregano.
The men finished branding and dehorning. After they washed up, they filed past the kitchen door and got dinner. Sydney didn’t want to be rude, but the last thing she wanted to do was sit across from her uncle. By now, he had to have run out of eligible men in the state of Texas, but given the opportunity, he’d likely start listing friends of his all across America.
The cowboys sat along the back porch. She took a bowl after everyone else had been served and slipped off to the front porch swing.
“Sydney?” Tim called to her. “Hey, Syd? Where are you?”
She took a bite. For an instant, she thought the temperature of the chili was too hot. Then, the full impact hit. She slapped her hand over her mouth, and her eyes started to tear. Her tongue and the roof of her mouth began to burn unbearably. Desperate, she swallowed.
It got worse. She hadn’t thought it possible, but it had. Fire streaked from her stomach clear to the roots of her hair.
“Sydney!” Tim shouted.
She suspected he was going to bellow at her for how she’d managed to ruin the meal. Not that she cared—at least not much, not now. Spying the pump out in the barnyard, she picked up her skirts and ran for the relief it promised. Abandoning every last shred of decorum, she grabbed the handle and stuck her mouth by the spigot.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“No!” Tim grabbed her by the waist and jerked her from the stream of cool water.
“Aaaarghhh!” She struggled against his hold.
“No. No water.”
Wiggling with all her might, she couldn’t break free. He swept her into his arms. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Bur. Ha! Wa-ur!”
Ignoring her plea, he headed up the porch steps.
Even her lips felt scorched. It was impossible to tell what was worse—the heat that built up if her mouth was closed, or the searing flames that streaked across her tongue if she breathed with her mouth open.
“Velma, get some milk!” How Tim managed to open the screen door didn’t register. The minute he set foot in the house, Sydney twisted to snatch the pitcher from the washstand. If Tim tried to take it away, she decided she’d be fully justified in smacking him in the head with it—after she drank the contents.
Velma swiped the pitcher from her and pressed a glass into Sydney’s hands. “Drink that. Quick.”
Anything. Sydney would drink anything if it would lessen the burning. The first gulp didn’t help whatsoever. Desperation had her taking a second, then a third. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Keep drinking it. Milk stops the burning.”
“Ire.”
“Did she just call you a liar?” Fuller hobbled over.
“Fire. She’s saying her mouth’s on fire.” Tim sat on a chair in the dining room and kept her on his lap. “We’re going to need more milk. Or sour cream.”
“Cheese works pretty good,” Fuller said. “Don’t know why she’s having trouble. I’ve eaten hotter.”
Sydney was sure her hair was singed. It had to be. She glugged the rest of the first glass with a complete lack of restraint. Maybe after she had the ninth or tenth glass, her hair might stop smoking. It would take at least a month or more before she could breathe or talk. She figured it was God’s way of keeping her quiet, because she wanted to tell Uncle Fuller the only chili that could possibly be hotter had to be in Lucifer’s kitchen.
Fuller took another bite. “Whoo-eee! I take that back. This has a delayed kick.”
Pancake knocked and let himself in. “The men are wild about the chili. They want me to get your recipe.”
Sydney grabbed the next glass of milk and gulped it. She was afraid they’d misconstrue her answer. As a Christian, it wasn’t proper to tell someone to go to hell—even if that had to be where the recipe originated from.
Two hours later, Sydney looked out at the moonlit barnyard. After the weeks of working as a ranch hand, then working as a western woman alongside Velma, she’d come to love the land and this way of life. She knew each acre of fencing, each twist and rut in the road. At night, she knew which floorboards to avoid because they squeaked. Her heart told her she belonged here.
What would it be like to live on Forsaken, to be Tim’s wife, to rear a houseful of children who knew how to rope and ride and romp without worrying what others would think? A daughter who could go barefoot in wet grass and whistle with birds? And a son who would ride at his father’s side. . . . Best of all, they’d grow up knowing about Jesus.
She wilted onto the porch swing, wondering how to pray. At mealtimes, Tim and Velma talked to God as if He were sitting right there at the table with them. Tim said God is with me wherever I go. Lord, that means you are here right now. You’re supposed to know what’s in my heart. Well, I’m scared and hurt. I have feelings for Tim. He’s never done anything to make me think he’s interested in me. And now Uncle Fuller is trying to fob me off on whoever will take me. I don’t know what to do, God. Could you help me, please? Thank you. Amen.
Sydney straightened her sleeve cuffs. As prayers went, that hadn’t been eloquent, but she felt okay, anyway. God was her Father. He wouldn’t care if she wasn’t perfect. That’s the way fathers were.
“Thought you might like this.” Tim came out with a glass of milk for her and a cup of coffee for himself. He eased himself down on the porch swing and started to move it with a bit more effort. It no longer merely swayed a few inches each direction, but rocked a good two feet forward and back. The creaking of the chains made Tim grin. “I’m going to have to oil those.”
“They do make a racket.”
“It’s going to be a pain in the neck if I don’t.” He winked. “Want me to take it down and move it back a foot or so?”
“Why?” She accepted her milk and sipped.
Tim emptied his mug with a few healthy swigs, then leaned a bit closer. “It wouldn’t be as easy to see from the barnyard.”
Her brows knit. “Don’t you want me to watch what’s going on?”
Tucking a stray curl behind her shoulder, he asked, “Don’t they have courting swings in England?”
“A courting swing?” She tried her best to modulate her voice. Disappointment swamped her. Tim must have changed his mind and decided to agree with Fuller.
“When a man wants to be with his sweetheart, he asks her out onto the porch. They sit and visit while they swing. Most a man can do is hold his sweetheart’s hand on one of these things, because if he wants to crank up enough courage to kiss her, the rhythm of the swing changes, or it stops altogether. Believe you me, if the chains stop making noise, her parents find an excuse to walk on out to check on them!”
“Oh.”
He gave her an odd look. “You don’t seem very happy about the idea.”
Staring at the contents of her glass, Sydney confessed, “I’m not. I don’t want to go anywhere else. Uncle Fuller must have spoken to you by now. It’s obvious he wants me gone.”
“What in the world gave you that notion?”
“He spent the entire afternoon bringing up every last one of your neighbors and telling me about their strong points and fortes. To hear him talk, you’d think all of the unmarried men for miles arou
nd are paragons. I daresay if the Hunchback of Notre Dame were a neighbor, my uncle would declare I’d be hearing beautiful music for my entire marriage.”
Tim let out a bark of a laugh.
She didn’t bother to say anything more. Tim hadn’t been there and heard Fuller. Worse, he didn’t seem in the least bit sorry she’d be leaving. It wouldn’t surprise her if Velma was upstairs at this very moment, packing for her. I thought we were all friends, but their loyalty still belongs to Fuller. Friends. That’s how Tim thinks of me. I love him, and he thinks of me as a comrade. I did this to myself. I masqueraded as a man, and this is the consequence. Heart burning worse than her mouth, she lifted the glass and took a sip.
“That was Fuller being Fuller. In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never once heard him say a bad thing about anyone else. He sees the best in others. It’s one of his finest qualities.”
She swallowed and forced herself to admit, “Admirable.”
“He wasn’t trying to pair you up with anyone, Sugar.”
If she squeezed the glass any tighter, it would shatter. “Are you sure?”
Tim trailed his fingernail back and forth over the shoulder seam of her dress. “Positive. I thought maybe you’d like the swing set back. I sure would. I don’t cotton to having the men in the bunkhouse watching us sit together.”
“Us?” She could hardly believe her ears. A moment ago, she’d convinced herself that he didn’t have feelings for her. Was he declaring himself?
“Yes, us.” He took the glass from her. As the swing arced backward, he set the glass on the porch planks, then turned toward her. “I have you just where I want you.”
She could barely whisper, “And where is that?”
He slid his hand back to cup her neck. His mouth came closer as he murmured, “At home with me, where you belong.”
A loud whistle and hoot from the yard made them pull apart at once. Tim growled, “I’m moving the swing!”
“Yes, I think,” Sydney agreed in a shaky tone, “that is a brilliant idea.”
“I heard the swing stop creaking,” Velma observed from the door. As Tim chuckled, Velma winked. “Figured I’d best check up on the two of you.”
“No need, Velma.” Tim gave her a sharkish grin. “Fuller’s given me permission to chase after her.”
By midmorning the next day, Tim wanted to stomp up to the porch and kiss Sydney. Then he’d knock a few heads together for good measure. He wasn’t a man given to violence, but this situation was unique. Once the men knew Fuller had returned, they reckoned she was fair game. Tim wanted to be sure to show them they’d reckoned wrong.
To his disgust, four lovesick swains tripped all over themselves and each other to be with her. Two others had already been here and left. The blacksmith had even brought her flowers. Like a fool, Tim hadn’t ever given her flowers. He should have thought to do that by now. Women liked flowers. Sydney had gathered them and filled her boots, and still, he hadn’t gotten the hint. He growled under his breath.
Sydney sat on the porch swing, holding court—the porch swing he’d moved. Not only moved, but oiled. He determined that until he scared some sense into this flock of idiots, he’d put her swing up front during the day and set it back at night.
Tim started toward the porch. He saw red when Alex Denton rested his hand on Sydney’s knee. Just before Tim bellowed, though, Sydney smartly rapped Denton directly across the knuckles with her fan and chided, “Behave yourself or leave, sir!”
While Denton tried to frame a suitable apology, Milton Baumgartner gave him a punch in the arm. “Try that again, and I’ll pinch that pimple you call a head clean off of your neck!”
“Oh my.” Sydney opened her fan and fluttered it.
Tim thundered up the steps. “That’s no way to—”
“Talk in the presence of a lady,” Fuller interrupted as he came out of the house.
Baumgartner groused, “I didn’t mean any offense.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Fuller gave the blacksmith a nod of acknowledgment. “I’m sure we all want what is best for my niece. It’s plain to me already that she’s just like her mama— smart, pretty, and softhearted. There’s not a man alive who doesn’t want to snap up a gal like her and hold her safe and tight.”
A chorus of agreement left Tim ready to knock heads together again.
“I do hope you will all understand.” Sydney rose. “I only met my uncle yesterday and need to become better acquainted with him today.”
The second Sydney got up, the men came to their feet.
“We’ve all missed him, too,” Mr. Clark said. “Fuller, I brought some boots for Miss Hathwell to try on. Special ordered from Boston. If you’ll write down whatever tonic the doctor in Abilene used to treat you, I’ll be sure to stock it at the mercantile.”
“I’ll bring Sydney to town later in the week to take care of those matters.”
His patience exhausted, Tim jerked his thumb to the side. “Out of here, all of you.”
“Of course they’re leaving.” Fuller nodded sagely. “They’re busy men with plenty of hard work to do. I’m honored you all took the time to come welcome me home.”
As the men rode off, Sydney slid her hand into Tim’s. “They’re our neighbors. Just like the Richardsons.”
He gave her a surly look. “They can pester those girls. You’re taken.”
Checking his pocket watch, Hume fought a persistent sense of impatience. The first leg of their journey had tested him sorely. When Tyler said he’d gotten tickets for the train, Rex didn’t for a moment imagine the investigator had purchased standard seats.
Rexall Hume the Third did not travel with commoners and riffraff. Since they’d barely jumped aboard the train before it departed, Rex attempted to talk the purser into moving him to a Pullman car—but none was available. At a brief stop, Rex dashed to the telegraph station and ordered a private Pullman be prepared so it could be added onto the train in Chicago.
Indeed, his maxim proved true yet again: Anything could be obtained for the right price. Snap. The cover closed on his watch. In a matter of days, he’d also have the wife he’d paid so dearly for.
It couldn’t be soon enough.
“The train ought to be pulling into the station in about an hour.” Tyler gazed out the window. “The purser mentioned we have a thirty-minute stop.”
Hume nodded. The investigator possessed the singular ability to sit still and silent for hours on end, yet remain fully attentive the whole while. It stood to reason—his line of work would require such a temperament. Nonetheless, as antsy as Hume felt, it irritated him that his hireling seemed to be in far better control.
A moment at the washstand. Yes, that would be wise. The cool water refreshed him and helped him regain some sense of order. He noted the starch in his shirt was long gone. When he caught up with Lady Hathwell, he couldn’t possibly look this rumpled.
“What are the chances that the backwater town we stop at will have a tailor?”
Tyler shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”
“I’ll settle for a ready-made shirt if I must.” Hume dragged his comb through his hair. A ready-made shirt would be quite a comedown, and every bit as bad, the too-long sleeves would require him to wear sleeve garters. Back home he had a closet full of fine cotton shirts tailored to his exact specifications. That being the case, the very thought of sleeve garters galled him. He ought to have thought to instruct Tyler to order the maid to pack a few necessities for him whilst Tyler picked up the papers.
Ah, the papers. The packet rested in the inside pocket of his suit coat. That coat presently swayed to and fro on a highly polished brass hook with the train’s motion. A fresh brushing by the purser would restore the suit coat sufficiently . . . and the sleeve garters wouldn’t be visible beneath the coat. Cheered by that thought, Hume grinned at his reflection.
“Have you decided whether to purchase mounts when we reach our destination,” Tyler asked, “or will we rent?”
/> “It depends on how much time we have in Abilene. We haven’t been on time for a single leg of this trip.”
“Most men have a preference when it comes to breed. Anything particular you like? Tennessee Walker? Arabian?”
“Dappled gray.” Hume walked the length of the Pullman, took a cigar from the box, and sniffed it appreciatively. “Whatever you ride doesn’t matter, but I’m firm about my mount.”
“Dappled grays are fine. Rare in this region. Cowboys go for mustangs, pintos, workhorses. We could wire ahead, but I discourage that. If your name gets out, Lady Hathwell might overhear it and bolt.”
A knock sounded, and the purser entered. “Sir, will you be dining here or in the dining car this evening?”
“Here. I trust the fare will have improved over the other meals?”
“The menu is pre-arranged, sir. If I might be so bold, Mildred’s is a mere stone’s throw from the train station. The offerings there are superior. I particularly recommend the roast rabbit.”
“Tyler, see to that.”
As soon as the train ground to a halt, Tyler went to fetch the meal. Hume headed toward the tailor. To his disgust, the shop was closed. He banged on the door, hoping the proprietor was in the back room. No such luck. Vexed, Hume hastened on to the general store.
He never darkened the door of such an establishment, for his servants saw to the marketing. The smell of pickle brine and moldy cheese assailed him as he entered the store. Without the luxury of time or choice, Rex knew he had to make do. “Show me your shirts.”
The owner gestured to a shelf. “Got a bunch in last week. Take your pick.”
Rex stared in revulsion at the display. The shirts were all folded. The creases in them would proclaim them to be precisely what they were: a working man’s ready-made, cheap garment. Well, if a meal could be cooked on the train, there had to be a stove. That meant the purser could slap an iron on it. Rex gritted his teeth and snatched up a white shirt. Two. No, three. He’d need changes for the next few days.
“They’re on special. Buy four, get one free.”
Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 30
