Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 10

  “Now try to change the attitude of the rope. Instead of horizontally by the ground, alter your wrist so it’s perpendicular.” He did so with his own rope and talked in a lazy tone. “You do it for a few revolutions, then feed more line so the hoop gets bigger. See?”

  “By Jupiter! That’s fabulous!”

  He shot her a grin. “It’s fun. Gals are impressed, too. Learn a few tricks, and then you can show off as a slick way of meeting some cute little filly.”

  A wry smile twisted her lips.

  “Buck up, Syd. I’ll teach you the ropes, so to speak, with gals.” He flicked his wrist, and his rope spun away and rolled back.

  “You’re sly, Tim Creighton.”

  “Beginning tomorrow night at the dance, you’ll be, too. Now give it a try.”

  Sydney started spinning the rope, then tried to tilt it onto the side. It hit the dirt and kicked up a cloud of dust.

  “Keep trying.” Tim stepped back.

  “Very well.” She tried three more times. Two of those three times, she flipped it too awkwardly. The lariat looped onto her and tangled in her hair. She set down the rope, retied the cloth at her nape, and tried again. It was a failure, too. She gave Tim a weak smile and set to work again. That one smacked her face.

  Reeling from the impact, she stumbled backward. It took every shred of her self-control to keep from crying. Blinking rapidly, she said nothing.

  “Kid, you’re working against yourself. First things first. This has to go.” Tim whipped out his bowie knife, grabbed the dangling length of her hair, and hacked off a good six inches.

  Sydney’s hands flew upward to feel the short tresses fall wildly around her chin and shoulders.

  “At least it won’t tangle in the rope now.” Tim calmly flung the huge fistful of chestnut curls from his hand into the breeze.

  Sydney disciplined herself not to let him see how horrified she was.

  “Let’s get back to roping. You’re too jerky.” He waited a moment while she picked up her rope. “Kid, I keep forgetting what a pup you are. Just how tall do folks grow in your family?”

  “Papa was five foot nine,” she croaked. After clearing her throat, she added, “Mama was five foot even.”

  “Fuller’s her brother, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He used to be fair sized before the rheumatiz bent him. He was probably about your pa’s height. Once you start to stretch out, you won’t have cause to worry.”

  “Don’t count on it. I’d wager that I take after my mama.”

  “Regardless, you’re gonna help with the branding. Now see to the rope. Pay out a bit. About that much more. Good. Yes, a little more. . . . Now, see how I’m bringing your hand up and still keeping the wrist action? There!”

  She got the feel of it as they did it together again so she would sense the rhythm. It was hard for Sydney to concentrate. His closeness seemed so . . . enveloping. She felt oddly smothered, but instead of wanting to inch away, she scooted a bit closer. Tim didn’t seem to mind. Probably because he thought it let her move her arm more freely.

  This stirring sensation in the pit of her stomach felt oddly warming. Sydney hadn’t ever experienced it before, and she’d been in dozens of men’s arms at formal dances. Then again, they kept the perfectly gentlemanly three inches of space as was proper and acceptable. If they hadn’t, she quietly stepped on their toes and gave them a warning look that transmitted her opinion of their scandalous conduct. Even if his closeness tipped her into a dither, she was masquerading as a boy, so she didn’t dare step on Tim Creighton’s toes.

  The thoughts were too confusing, too disturbing. She shook her head to dislodge them.

  “What’s wrong, Syd?”

  “My . . . um, hair. It itches.”

  “Cut it real short. It’ll keep you from getting buggy, too.”

  She almost dropped the rope. “I’ve never had a pest of any sort on my person!”

  “That’s bound to change. When we do a cattle drive, you’ll have fleas and ticks. Sleeping on the ground and being around the animals—’specially the dogs—does it, regardless of how fastidious a man is.”

  She groaned.

  Slapping her on the back, Tim shook his head. “Kid, you’ve got a long way to go. Forget all of those fancy drawing room ways and concentrate on things that really matter.”

  “For example?”

  “The water level in the pond and well. The amount of rainfall. The price of a barrel of flour and how to brew a decent cup of coffee over an open fire. How to talk sweet to a nice girl and let her down gentle if you decide she’s not the one you want for your wife. Most important, setting aside time to tend your soul. If you’re not right with God, nothing’s right.”

  “You have a very interesting personal code.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Don’t you want a son you can pass things down to?”

  Growling, Tim let go of the rope. “That’s a sore spot, Syd.”

  The words, alone, warned Sydney to drop the subject; but something about the sandpapery rasp to his voice and the look in Tim’s eyes made it clear she’d best not bring it up ever again. She wanted to give him sympathy or compassion, but that was a womanly thing to do.

  “I’d like to digress, if we might. You said that the Richardson girls are all nice girls. You also let me know that you avoid them like the plague. Word around here is that you just plain avoid women altogether. Why?”

  Tim’s jaw hardened. “Getting left behind once was more than enough.”

  Something in his tone let Sydney know he’d said all he wanted to. Men didn’t pry, so she reluctantly changed topics. “I’ve never met my uncle. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Kid, God doesn’t make better. Fuller has equal parts integrity and grit. He started this place up and made it into a shining example of what a ranch can be. Hard work doesn’t bother him. He makes others work just as hard because they’re ashamed to give him a half-baked job. His word is better than anything written on paper. Folks consider his handshake a done deal, yet if something happens along the line, he’s not one to hold another to something that turns unfair.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Me. I bought the land to the east. Some of the best pastureland around. Has a fork of the river passing right through it, sweet like. I was proud of that land. Fact was, I didn’t have more than a few nickels to rub together after paying for the dirt. Times had been bad for me, and I figured on sitting tight and lickin’ my wounds while I slowly built the place into something worthwhile.

  “Fuller needed water. He and I settled on a fair price for him letting his herd water there. That was how I bought my starter stock. After a couple of good years, we had five of the worst drought years imaginable. The river turned into barely a trickle. Both of us had beef dying on the hoof for want of water, but he still showed up at my door and handed me payment for the river rights, just as we’d originally agreed.

  “I’d never done a thing for the man. Fact was, I was so ornery, I barely spoke a word to anyone for the whole time I’d lived there. Still, I couldn’t take Fuller’s money. Then he told me he’d never be able to look himself in the eye if he’d back out on his word. He wasn’t worth anything if he didn’t keep his honor.

  “I felt like a cow pie. I finally got him to agree that we’d take that money and drill somewhere on the border of our land and share whatever bubbled up. When we found the source of the spring, it was two feet on his side of the land, but the land slants. As soon as the well digging started, the ground crumbled, and the water all flowed to my side. Fuller refused to believe that the water was even half his. The only way he’d let his stock drink was if I took part of his place. We fought like crows over the last berry. In the end, he had me. He went to town and simply deeded over part of his stock and land without telling me.”

  “But droughts come to an end!”

  “Yup. That one did the next year. By then, our stock had mingl
ed so completely, it was impossible to credit the bulls for their studding, and the cows wouldn’t keep to either land. He had me over a barrel.”

  “But you do more than your fair share now. Velma tells me my uncle’s become badly crippled.”

  “Kid, I owe the man. Until he got so stubborn, I’d shut myself off from everyone. He forced me to start living again.” Tim’s face looked harder than granite. “Some things a man barely makes it through. Fuller has a knack for knowing when to step in and how far to push. I’ll lay down and die before I let him see this place fall to rack and ruin.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “Fuller taught me that. Let him teach you, too, kid. Not everything you learn in life has to do with money or things. Fuller’s one of the few who knows that. If you turn out to be half the man he is, you can count yourself proud.”

  Tim pounded on Sydney’s door. “Time to get movin’, kid.”

  “I’ll be right out!”

  “Don’t dally.”

  Sydney gazed at her reflection in that abysmal mirror and tried desperately to quell her smile. She turned sideways and looked at her profile. Did she look manly enough? The cravat she wore hid the bulk of her chest binding. The britches hung loosely. She frowned at her short, botched-beyond-hope hair. One of these days, she’d shave Tim Creighton bald for having hacked it off.

  When she opened the door, Sydney stopped cold. Tim had paced down the hall and was on the way back. He’d bathed and put on black trousers and a crisp white shirt. His boots shone with fresh polish, his chin had a small speck of blood that tattled on a fresh shave, and his hair looked sleek with a small dab of pomade.

  Her mouth went dry. The man looked dashingly handsome. How had she managed to suppress her awareness of what a good-looking man he was? Beneath that rugged facade shone an impressive, stunningly masculine individual. He didn’t just look cleaned up—he looked downright debonair. Had he the right set of clothes, he’d make every woman in London’s high society swoon. As it was, he didn’t have on tony clothes, but he was dressed as elegantly as any rustic man of these parts did. He even had on cuff links and a string tie. . . .

  “Kid, what possessed you to wear that cravat thing? You look like you’re wearing a silk scarf with ruffles. Honest to Pete, you look like a frilly sissy.” He shook his head. “Maybe men back in England get away trying to look pretty, but out here, a man dresses like a man and leaves the fussy stuff for the gals. The last thing we need is for some drunken fool to mistake you for a pretty girl and start a fight. Ditch it, and we’ll get moving.”

  His words thrilled her. He thought she was pretty! He thought men would be attracted to her. Even with her duded up in men’s clothing, he still considered her feminine. Backhanded as it was, it was the first bit of male appreciation she’d had in days.

  Tim gave her a dark look. “What’re you standing there for? Take off that stupid cravat.”

  “You’re wearing a tie,” she rasped in a husky voice that couldn’t truly be her own.

  His big hand went up and fleetingly touched that bit of masculine attire. “Yup. Plenty of the gals have a thing for them.”

  “Perhaps the ladies will take a fancy to my cravat.”

  Tim gave it a scowl. “Only because they might want to wear it themselves.”

  Sydney hastened to her room, stared in the mirror, and untied her cravat. With Tim in the background, she had to take pains to make sure he couldn’t see the edge of her chest binding. In the mirror, she saw him lean against her doorframe. Her fingers fumbled with the top shirt buttons, then with the collar.

  “That’s good enough. Time to go.”

  “Very well—I mean, fine.” The minute she passed through the door, Tim slapped her on the shoulder and practically sent her sprawling.

  Tim thought about the holster he’d gotten for Syd. It’d weigh the kid down and stop that infernal sway to his hips. Then again, he’d seen Syd’s temper. So far, when the kid got mad, he clammed up and stomped off—but men often felt obliged to take a stand when embarrassed in public. Those incidents gave ample room for foolishness.

  “Velma already took the buckboard. She’s mighty proud of her potato salad.”

  “I’ll be sure to sample it and praise her.”

  “Good.” Tim mounted up, then grimaced. The kid couldn’t swing up into Kippy’s saddle.

  Fancy Pants casually led the horse to the porch steps, gained his saddle, and acted as if men always mounted in such manner. Unless aged or infirm, no other man in Texas would have stooped to requiring help to saddle up. The kid adjusted his hat and set Kippy at a comfortable trot.

  Tim couldn’t believe it, but stuffy English dignity worked in this situation. He nodded to himself. Whatever Syd did today that was off, Tim would cover for him by offhandedly commenting on how Brits had odd ways of going about things.

  “Other than eating barbecue and dancing, what does a Founders’ Day celebration entail?”

  “The parson will say a prayer. The mayor will get longwinded, and old Mrs. Whitsley will poke him with her cane.”

  “Is that a Texas tall tale?”

  “Nope. It’s the unvarnished truth. She’ll be sitting up on the platform because her grandfather founded the town. The woman’s a pistol. She’ll pound the platform with her cane and take the mayor to task for making everyone stand out in the sun when they ought to be sitting in the shade, eating.”

  “I take it that’s what she did last year?”

  “The last five years.” Tim chuckled. “Some things never change.”

  Once they reached the outskirts of town, Sydney shot him a surprised look. “All of these people live hereabouts?”

  “Sort of. Lots of the little whistle-stop towns surrounding us come for this and the Fourth of July. Not as many people show up for the Fourth, though.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Texas sided with the South in the War Between the States. Some folks still harbor hard feelings.”

  Beneath his hat’s brim, Syd’s face darkened. “I’d not thought about that. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I’d not want to ruin someone’s day by speaking out of turn.”

  “It’s a subject best left alone.” They dismounted, hitched their horses to a shade tree, and walked down the street toward the platform. Tim didn’t want the kid lagging after him like a lost puppy. He had a few things he wanted to get done while in town.

  Suddenly Syd halted and hunkered down.

  Tim towered over him. “What are—”

  “The Richardsons just arrived. My boot’s—”

  “Big Tim!” The girls all fluttered toward him.

  Tim muffled a groan.

  Sydney rose. “How did I know you ladies would all be coming to town? I just knew you would! And the town’s all decorated. Did you help?”

  Tim wanted to slink away, but Mrs. Richardson clamped hold of one arm while Linette grabbed the other.

  Sydney listened to the girls for a brief moment, then heaved a sigh. “You ladies will have to excuse us.”

  “But why?” Katherine threaded her hand through the crook of Sydney’s arm.

  “Boots. Mine don’t fit properly. I’ve admired Tim’s . . .”

  Tim seized the opportunity. “I promised Fuller I’d see to things. Since we’re in town, it’s smart to get Hathwell the proper equipment.”

  “We’ll come along!” Marcella beamed.

  “I simply couldn’t bear the indignity of exposing such refined young women to my stockinged feet.” Sydney made a shooing motion. “Off with you all.”

  “Good going, kid.” Tim headed toward the saddlery. “C’mon.”

  “Isn’t the mercantile—”

  Tim shook his head. “Those gals will concoct a reason to go there. I’m taking you to Matteo. When it comes to boots, nobody makes ’em better.”

  Matteo was glad to get some business. While he measured the kid’s impossibly small feet, Tim looked around the shop. No use buying what the
ranch didn’t need. Then again, no use waiting till something broke before replacing it.

  Odd, how Hathwell could be so nauseatingly priggish at one moment, then a stalwart man the next. He’d tried to help Tim evade the Richardsons, and when it didn’t work, he concocted an honest excuse to part company.

  Tim turned and watched the kid stand and stomp down to force his foot completely into a boot. He took a few experimental steps, then nodded. “Tim was right. He said nobody makes better boots.”

  Tim set a few articles on the table. “Put these on Forsaken’s tab, Matteo.”

  The kid reached into his pocket. “How much—”

  Tim shook his head. “Forsaken takes care of her men.”

  Being a man had some benefits. Sydney was free to roam around without a chaperone. She could eat as much as she wanted without anyone considering her a glutton. Instead of straining to make polite conversation, she could nod or be strong and silent. Well, silent at least.

  A ragtag collection of people comprised a band on part of the boardwalk. They played with great zeal and very little talent.

  Enterprising children ran a lemonade stand. Sydney bought a cup. It tasted dreadful. She couldn’t resist buying a second one, though.

  She’d meet folks at church on Sunday, but most didn’t wait for an introduction. Men stuck out their hands and identified themselves by last name and trade or spread. If their wife happened to be with them, they’d simply introduce her as “the wife” or “the little woman.” Daughters were a different story. Proud papas gave their names and boasted about their daughters’ foremost accomplishment.

  And oh, those accomplishments. Lacey could rope a steer faster than most men. Hedda took second place at the county fair with her fig preserves. Theodora inherited her uncle’s knack for water dousing. Crawdads shivered in fear of Angelina. Odd as those boasts seemed, Sydney found them refreshing. Back home, fathers relegated their daughters to the care of a nanny or governess. Most didn’t know their daughters well enough to dote on them.