Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 11

  For all the tony soirees, high-society fetes, and carefully orchestrated picnics she’d been to in England, none of them was half as fun. Once the dancing started, she stood on the edge of the planks and watched as folks whirled and stomped, promenaded and allemanded.

  “Give it a go, kid.” Tim slapped him on the back.

  “After you.” Sydney grinned at him.

  Big Tim found crotchety old Mrs. Whitsley. She tossed aside her cane and joined him.

  Sydney watched as Big Tim swept the old woman off her feet. Mrs. Whitsley pinched his cheek and said something. He threw back his head and belted out a laugh. Once the fiddle started, Tim carted the old woman to and fro, wheeled around, and slid her into another man’s arms for one pass around the circle of dancers. He reclaimed her, wove around the opposite direction, and finally finished off the dance by carefully setting Mrs. Whitsley back down and making a courtly bow to her.

  At that moment, any last scrap of resentment or anger Sydney had felt toward him evaporated. Big Tim, handsome and strong, hadn’t chosen a pretty or rich young girl. He’d found a woman who needed a little lovingkindness and given her a taste of joy. Tim didn’t stop there. He escorted Velma over to a group and helped form a square. Soon, they followed the lively fiddle music and the directions from the man Tim labeled the “caller.”

  Having taken dance lessons and learned all of the proper ballroom moves, Sydney possessed a sense of rhythm and movement. Far more verve and style went into square dancing, yet folks didn’t adhere to strict postural carriage. She couldn’t be sure whether someone stepped amiss or if they were just embellishing the moves.

  Tim whirled Velma right by Sydney as their dance ended. He glanced from Velma to Sydney, and Sydney took the hint. She stepped up onto the planks and bowed. “Miss Velma, I’d be honored to partner you for the next dance, if you won’t mind my inexperience.”

  “We’ll have us a fine time!” She laced her arm through Sydney’s and hastily introduced “Syd Hathwell” to the other couples. In ballroom dancing, men stepped forward and women moved backward. This dance didn’t work that way. No one minded when she turned the wrong direction.

  “You done good, Syd.” Mr. Tomel pounded her on the back when the dance finished.

  For the next hour, Sydney alternated between watching everyone and dancing. During one dance, Marcella Richardson was Sydney’s “corner.” That necessitated their dancing together for part of the set. When the piece ended, the man who’d been Marcella’s partner vanished. Marcella sidled closer.

  Sydney saw the hope in her eyes. Do I ask her to dance, just to make her feel better? Or do I make my excuses so she’ll have the opportunity to dance with a man? It’s bad enough that I’m deceiving everyone. I can’t rob these young ladies of the possibility of catching a young suitor.

  “In England, one dance—even a portion of that one dance—is all that is permitted for a young lady with any gentleman. I’ll not insult you by asking you to dance, Miss Richardson. You’re so light on your feet, I’m positive the other men are all anticipating a chance to squire you about the floor.”

  Sydney bowed and made her escape. A few minutes later, someone grabbed her sleeve.

  “Syd! I always pay up.” Bert nodded. “It’s high time we had that beer.”

  “Beer.”

  “Yeah. I told you soon as we were in town, I’d get you one. C’mon.”

  Gulp scrambled over. “Widder O’Toole just started in on Pancake. We gotta git while the gittin’s good.”

  “The two of you go on ahead.” Sydney squared her shoulders. “I’ll be sure to engage the widow in conversation so you can make an escape.”

  “Toldja Syd’s a good egg.” Gulp gripped her arm and started striding off.

  Bert took her other arm. “Us men stick together.”

  A moment later, Sydney found herself standing between the cowboys at the bar in the saloon. A lady ought never enter such a place, yet Sydney couldn’t help enjoying the opportunity. The all-male bastion boasted a handful of tables. A smattering of bored-looking men played cards at those tables. Cigar and cigarette smoke mingled with the acrid smell of spirits.

  The bartender smacked a meaty hand on the bar. “What’ll it be?”

  “Beers.” Bert held up three fingers.

  As the bartender shoved a sticky mug into Sydney’s hand, she murmured, “I’m not all that thirsty.”

  “What does bein’ thirsty have to do with drinkin’ a beer?”

  Caught by surprise by that comment, Sydney took a sip before she remembered what was in the mug. Her eyes widened and her head came up. Then she saw the picture on the far wall and started coughing.

  Bert poured the beer down her and gave her a friendly shove. “Best way to cure chokin’ is to have a drink of something.”

  A few minutes later, Gulp elbowed Bert. A sly smile slanted across his face. Bert’s face lit with the same scheming smile.

  Sydney jerked on her cuffs to straighten her sleeves. “Well, Bert, you’ve certainly kept your word—”

  “Oh, we just got started, kid.” The cowboys each clenched a hand around her upper arms and headed up the stairs. “Tim said we’re all supposed to make a man outta you. We aim to follow orders.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Lord Hathwell, I presume.” An elegantly dressed woman met them at the top of the stairs. She turned to Gulp, then Bert. “You men go on back to your beers. I’ll make certain this young man returns downstairs in a while with a smile on his face.”

  One of the men roughly mussed Sydney’s hair. She was too horrified to take note of which one. “This here’s Helene. She’ll match you up.”

  Rooted to the floor, Sydney realized the cowboys were tromping down the stairs, snickering.

  Helene gave her a long look and a sly smile.

  Sydney’s blood ran cold. This is wrong. And even if it weren’t, they’ll find out I’m—

  Stepping closer, Helene tried to draw Sydney’s arm through hers. When Sydney balked, Helene murmured, “Nella and I were watching you. Your secret will be safe with us.”

  A young woman in a coppery-colored dress came around the corner. Her dress must have gotten caught in something, because the hem arced above her knees in the front. Sydney fought not to gape.

  Helene cooed, “Nella, dear, this is Lord Hathwell.”

  Nella took Sydney’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Hathwell.” She tugged Sydney out of sight, into a small bedroom. Once the door shut, she leaned against it and muffled a giggle. “Oh, this is hilarious!”

  Nervous as she’d ever been, Sydney rasped, “You won’t tell anyone?”

  Nella’s curls bobbed wildly as she shook her head. Then her smile grew. “Folks are going to have to pay more, now that English royalty visited me!”

  “I’m not royalty—just—”

  “You”—Nella rested her hands on her hips—“are royalty. Close enough, anyhow. Nobody here’ll ever care about the details. We’d better see to matters.”

  “Matters?” Sydney echoed.

  “Rumple your clothes, Syd. It has to look like they’ve been dropped on the floor.” Nella mussed her own hair a little. “And my perfume. Give a little squirt of it on your neck so’s you smell like we was close.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Nella’s jaw hardened. “I’m doin’ what I gotta. We all don’t have rich uncles.”

  “Oh no.” Sydney grabbed Nella’s hand. “You mistook my question. I wondered why you’re helping me.”

  The soiled dove let out a long, slow sigh. “Dunno. I heard about how Big Tim’s been putting you through the wringer. Figurin’ out that you’re a gal—you’ve gotta be desperate to put up with it all.” She shrugged. “Life is hard. Us girls—we gotta help one another out.”

  “What can I do to help you?” Never had Lady Sydney Hathwell imagined she’d speak to a woman of easy virtue, yet here she was . . . and finding Nella was an ordinary girl. Well,
an ordinary girl who did something sordid to make a living.

  “I got what I need.” Nella wrinkled her nose. “Your hair. What did you do to it?”

  “Tim sliced it off with his bowie knife.”

  “You ought to stab Tim for doing that to you. Sit down, and I’ll even things up a bit.” As Nella snipped at Sydney’s ragged tresses, she whispered, “You’re going to have to be sly to pull this off. What’re you gonna say?”

  Sydney thought a moment. “I’ll stand on propriety. A gentleman shouldn’t ever discuss his intimate encounters. It’s in poor taste.”

  “Hey, I like that. You’d best have a bit more ammunition, though. That smirk you’re wearin’ is good as gold. Use it.” Nella continued to use her shears. “Now as for what I’m gonna say . . . I’ll waltz outta here and make like you was quite a surprise. A nice surprise. And it’s the truth. You are a surprise.”

  Sydney twisted to look at her. “So are you. Nella, I don’t know how to thank you!”

  “Hey, it’s a job, kid. You’ll have to pay me for my time. I can’t afford to give up time just to visit.”

  Sydney’s breath caught. “I didn’t bring any money with me. I promise—”

  “It’s a good excuse for you to come back.” Nella nodded to herself. “I wouldn’t trust nobody else, but you and me—we’ve got an understanding.”

  A thought raced through Sydney’s mind. “Do you have a bathtub here somewhere?”

  “’Course we do.”

  “Then I’ll come and take a nice long bath. I’ll pay you, and you can have the time all to yourself.”

  “Oh!” Nella closed her eyes for a moment. The tiniest, fleeting smile tugged at the corners of her rouged lips. “How about you bringin’ some fancy bath salts for me? When you take your bath, I’ll let you share ’em.”

  “Oh, that sounds blissful!”

  A short while later, Nella squared her shoulders. “We need to go on back downstairs. Stand still. I have to get a little lip rouge on your shirt, back here just under your ear. You can act like you didn’t know it was there, and the guys’ll think we had us a grand old time.”

  Tim hauled Sydney off of Kippy and pushed him onto a mattress in the bunkhouse. The kid wasn’t in any condition to complain. Tim yanked off Syd’s boots and dropped them on the floor with a pair of loud thuds. The noise didn’t even make Sydney stir.

  Gulp tossed a spare blanket over him. “Gotta hand it to the kid. He managed to stay on his mount under his own steam the whole way home.”

  Keeping silent on the way home practically cost Tim his molars. He’d gritted his teeth to stay quiet, but now that his men were back on Forsaken, he let loose. “I won’t put up with you corrupting the kid’s morals. He’s too young to drink. You knew better. As for you setting him up with a whore—”

  “Aww, c’mon, Tim.” Pancake plopped down onto another bunk and struggled with his own boots. “You want help turnin’ him into a man. What better way . . .”

  “A real man is judged by the work he does and the character he develops.”

  Juan let out a bark of a laugh. “Well, the kid sure is a character.”

  Merle pulled off his shirt. “Give the kid some credit. He held his beer.”

  “Betcha he gets sicker than a dawg once he stands up,” Gulp predicted.

  “Didja see how much he drank? No foolin’, he must have downed seven mugs.”

  “What!” Tim roared in disbelief.

  Boaz nodded sagely. “Yep. Counted ’em, myself. Had a bet goin’ with Johnson from Checkered Past. Won me a whole buck!”

  Juan slapped Tim on the back. “That kid’s gonna be one of us yet, if we work him hard ’nuff.”

  Tim widened his stance and stared at each man in turn. “As long as you’ve been able to pull your weight, you’ve been allowed to do whatever you please on your time off. A man has a right to live as he sees fit—but I won’t tolerate you corrupting the kid.”

  “C’mon, Boss. You’re startin’ to sound like Widder O’Toole spoutin’ on about the evils of alo—aklo—drinks.”

  “Sounds like her, but he don’t look like her.” Gulp squinted. “Well, maybe a little. But she’s got hair growin’ outta her ears. Big Tim don’t.”

  Merle jabbed Gulp in the side. “Since when did you get that close to the widow?”

  Tim tamped down his frustration. After the men had a couple of drinks under their belts, they squabbled and teased one another like a pack of orphans in a street gang. He cleared his throat and ordered, “You heard me. No more taking Syd to drink and carouse. Let him sleep it off in the morning. He’s gonna have a roaring headache.”

  “But Nella,” Pancake scratched his side, “Nella said it was more than worth it.”

  Sydney barely roused and zestfully slurred, “Zannnnnnnk yewwwww, Nella!”

  The men roared.

  Tim pushed the kid’s shoulders back down on the bed. “Enough of that. Kill the lights and you men get to bed. Tomorrow’s gonna be a demanding day.”

  Someone moaned. Sydney peeled her eyes open to see who had made such a pitiful sound. As she did so, she made the same sick sound and realized she’d been the one to be noisy. Her moan cut short when she blearily realized she wasn’t in her bedchamber. There were men all around her. They were getting ready for the day—shaving, dressing, crawling out of their bunks with irritated oaths. The sight of them in various states of undress almost sent her screaming. Unable to sit up, she rolled over, dragged the blanket over her head, and groaned.

  “Hey, Syd! Come on an’ git up!”

  She moaned.

  “Leave the kid alone. He’ll upchuck all over our boots if we don’t clear outta here.”

  Sydney held her hands over her ears and pressed to keep her brains from exploding out of them. Bile rose up, and she swallowed it down. There was no way she could walk—or run—out of the bunkhouse at this particular moment. The men weren’t even dressed!

  A second later, an equally horrifying realization struck: The binding wasn’t around her bosom anymore. It had slipped downward and looped loosely around her waist. If, by chance, one of the men snatched away her blanket, she’d be in terrible straits. She rolled onto her belly and huddled underneath the musty wool blanket and tried to remember some kind of prayer that might be suitable under such circumstances. Nothing came to mind. Nothing at all.

  Finally, the bunkhouse fell silent. She timidly lowered the blanket and blinked. Dust motes danced on rays of sunlight. Even looking at them made her head ache. The sound of one of the hounds barking made her head ache. Breathing made her head ache.

  Soft footsteps approached. She thought it had to be Velma. Turning around, she immediately clamped a hand over her mouth. The act was as much a reaction of shock as it was to keep nausea at bay. A terrified sound curled in her chest.

  Tim held a battered old kettle in his huge hand. He shoved it at her, and she suffered the ignominy of being violently ill with him as a spectator. In truth, she nearly lost her shinbones into that kettle. Tim took away the kettle, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and tilted her head back. He briskly pushed a rough, wet cloth over her face and rasped quietly, “Kid, I hope you learned a real important lesson from this. Drinking doesn’t make a man. Times when a man drinks to excess, he’s liable to make some mighty big mistakes and live to regret them. Right about now, you’re wishing you won’t live; but if that’s the biggest regret you got, you’re lucky.”

  Sydney blearily blinked back her tears. Even in her hungover state, she had enough presence of mind not to cry. She slowly nodded and bit back a moan as the bunkhouse whirled.

  “I’ll dump out this puke and leave the kettle here. You’re responsible for any more cleanup. The guys’ll have your hide if you leave a mess in here. The place is a sty, but that’s where they draw the line. I’ll tan your hide if I ever catch you drinking again until you’re old enough to make that decision legally. I’m hoping you’re smart enough to figure from this one episode that getting s
oused and womanizing aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

  Sydney moaned and nodded her head very faintly before letting it droop down to her chest.

  “Why’re you hanging on to that blanket?”

  Her fingers clutched it even tighter as she rasped, “Cold.”

  “Syd, we’re gonna have to put some meat on your bones. All the guys were jawin’ ’bout how hot it is in here. I’ve been aiming to put in another window or two. You’re acting like it’s the dead of winter.”

  Slanting him a jaundiced look, Sydney whispered, “I feel half dead along with it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Sleep it off. A bunch of the idiots’ll tell you to have a nip of the hair of the dog that bit you, but that just makes it worse. Sleep. Drink loads of water, and eat as soon as your guts calm a bit.”

  “Fine.”

  Tim said nothing more. He simply walked away with the kettle and returned with it a few minutes later. He set it next to Sydney, pressed a hand on her shoulder, and walked out.

  She was more than grateful to him for having been so understanding. It would have served her right if he’d thundered at her. A bellow might well have made her faint, though. That would have been disastrous. But he’d intentionally kept that booming voice of his very low and muffled, given her more kindness than any drunk ever deserved, and then held his peace. A few days ago, she wouldn’t have pegged him as a man who possessed a scrap of compassion, but he’d proven her wrong. Maybe all that praying he did resulted in him showing a little mercy on rare occasions. She felt a wash of relief that he’d demonstrated it just now.

  Praying that no one would walk in, Sydney hesitantly let go of the blanket and lifted her shirt. She unwound the binding and rewrapped it. As she did so, she inhaled and smelled the scent of Nella’s perfume. The sweetness of the fragrance made her want to retch, but at the same time, she relished that small bit of femininity. Having always been every inch a lady, the complete lack of woman’s touches in her everyday life tried her sorely. Even if the scent came from a soiled dove’s dresser, it was delicate. She didn’t want to wash it off.