Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 12

  Miserably clutching the kettle to her chest, Sydney staggered to the house. She still needed to sleep several hours, but staying in the bunkhouse certainly invited any number of disasters. Stumbling up the stairs, she made it to her new bedchamber. During a fleeting moment of lucidity, she counted it a blessing that the place was so dark. The very lack of sunlight helped lessen the horrid throbbing in her head.

  Velma came up and quietly put three pitchers of water in the room. “Drink the first, then wash up with the other two when you finally decide to join the living. Best you try to nibble on the bread crusts on the plate. Don’t you dare eat another bite until I make you some broth at dinner.”

  “I never want to eat again!”

  Velma chuckled softly. “At least not for today.”

  “Mama would be mortified,” Sydney muttered as she curled up on the counterpane and buried her head in the pillow.

  Petting her cropped hair, Velma whispered, “Child, I’d wager your mama never imagined you traipsin’ about dressed in a getup like this and doing the work of a field hand, neither. Sure as shootin’, she didn’t picture you visiting a cathouse.”

  “I can do this.” Each word rasped through her scratchy throat. Sydney tried to convince herself, “It’s only until January.”

  Velma sighed and pulled a blanket up to Sydney’s shoulders. “Girl, it’s gonna be the death of us tryin’ to keep this cat in the bag. You’re just too tender to take all of this for long.” She padded out of the room and shut the door.

  By suppertime Sydney managed to splash herself into an alert, though not totally presentable, state. She wobbled down the stairs and made it to the table without her knees giving way, though they seemed to be mere lengths of soggy string rather than flesh and blood.

  Sydney ate slowly and tried to ignore the odors of the food. It should have been a wonderful meal—well balanced, plentiful, and cooked to perfection—but her stomach still lurched at the least provocation.

  Tim inhaled his food with the gusto for which he was famed. He looked over and scowled. “Remember how you feel. That’ll keep you out of too much trouble the next time temptation arises.”

  She moaned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Propping his elbows on the table, Tim commented, “You did all right by yourself the first half of the night.”

  “How would you know?” she mumbled sickly.

  “I saw you meeting neighbors and dancing. You picked up on the steps just fine.”

  “Of course he did. I danced his first square and taught him how.” Velma nodded. “You did great, Syd. I’d dance with you anytime.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “That reminds me.” Velma hopped up. “Pancake was supposed to bring home my dishes from the picnic. If I don’t go get my bowls, there’s no telling what he’ll do with them. The last time, he stuck them in the bunkhouse as spittoons!”

  As Velma bustled away, Tim shoved a bowl of string beans across the table and ordered, “Eat more.”

  “I don’t dare.”

  “You’re just too plain skinny. Bet you don’t have more than a pound of muscle on that body. Tomorrow, I’ll have you chop firewood. Chop three cords a week, and you ought to get some bulk on those spindly arms.”

  Sydney put down her fork with a bang and winced at the sound. “Have you no couth?”

  “I’m not saying a word that every man for miles around isn’t thinking. You’ve got a long way to go before you amount to a hill of beans.”

  “Are you implying that I am worthless?”

  He locked eyes and nodded. “Yup. That’s about the size of it.”

  “Size? Is that all that matters? Brute strength?”

  “Kid, stop right there. Size counts because if you aren’t able to do the job, you can’t have it. You gotta earn a living. Men won’t work with you or for you if you can’t keep up.”

  “I’m keeping up.”

  “Really,” he drawled in disgust. “Fuller sweated blood to build this place into its current state. He’ll demand that you be part of it, or you won’t stay. Plain and simple.”

  “I suppose that would suit you just fine.”

  “Kid, that does it.” Tim rose and came around to her side of the table. His eyes flashed with anger and his lips thinned to a line. “Get up.”

  Chapter Ten

  There was no denying it. In her anger, she’d issued a challenge. Horrified at her carelessness and audacity, Sydney wondered how to extricate herself from this coil, but there was no plausible excuse or escape.

  “Get up. Now.” Tim’s voice dropped below any register she’d ever heard. That rumbling bass carried such an implicit threat that Sydney slithered from the opposite side of the chair, gulped, then raised her fists as she’d seen in pictures depicting pugilistic exhibitions.

  Contempt painted Creighton’s features. “I’d flatten you in a single punch, you spoiled brat.”

  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind he was right. Sydney’s hands dropped. She nervously adjusted her clothing. “You’re more than right. I’m obviously still shockingly in my cups. I spoke out of turn.”

  “You sure did. If you were a little kid, I’d wallop your backside. Don’t think I’m not sorely tempted to do just that.”

  She stepped back a huge stride and croaked, “You wouldn’t!”

  Silence crackled in the room. The look on Big Tim’s face clearly showed how he tamped down the urge to paddle her. Sydney fought an urge herself: She wanted to slip her hands behind herself for protection. They eyed each other as tense moments passed.

  “You’re supposed to be a man.” Each of Tim’s gritty words came out so carefully enunciated, they sounded like individual gunshots. “Men measure their actions and words. In my book, you get one time of getting drunk and one time mouthing off.

  Try either again, and I’ll level you.”

  “Skunks and possums, what’s goin’ on in here?” Velma asked as she stormed over. She planted herself between Tim and Sydney.

  “The kid decided I’m trying to get rid of him. He thought maybe we ought to punch it out.”

  “Merciful saints!” Velma gave Sydney’s shoulder a shove. “Kid, when you get soused, you really do take leave of your senses.”

  Thoroughly humiliated, Sydney met Tim’s scornful gaze. “Sir, I owe you an apology. You’ve been honorable, and I spoke out of turn.”

  Tim looked less than mollified. “Don’t you ever challenge my position here again. I won’t have anyone question my motives or actions.” He stomped out and disappeared through the door with a loud bang.

  Velma whistled softly under her breath.

  If being hung over wasn’t misery enough, a delayed reaction to the narrow escape she’d had tilted Sydney into tears. She kept her hand clapped over her mouth to contain the noise, but huge, salty tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto her shirt.

  “Honey child, this little masquerade of yours has gone on long enough.” Velma gathered Sydney to her ample bosom and tenderly rocked her.

  “I have no other choice.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No.” Sydney pulled away. “If anything, this is a point of honor now!”

  “Honor? Girl, honor was that big ol’ cuss walking away when he had every right to deck you.” Velma wiped her hand off on her apron with agitated swipes. “I just can’t let this go on. You were a breath away from having Big Tim whale away on you!”

  “I’m going to prove myself. Don’t you dare tell!”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Sydney gave the housekeeper a pleading look. “You have to keep your silence! I’ve already endured far too much to turn back. The first week has to be the worst. The men have begun to accept me.”

  “I’m not promising anything. I’ll ponder over it and let you know what I think in the morning. Till then, you’d best get on upstairs and stay out of sight. Tim’s hoppin’ mad. Any other man would have stripped a length of hide off of you, but he d
idn’t. Any man suggesting Big Tim’s been less than generous and fair with Fuller is either a fool or a liar. You issued fighting words. He’s man enough to know he don’t have to prove anything to you, so he walked off. You got off easy, if all you got was a sound warning.”

  Sydney crept up the stairs, huddled pitifully under her sheets, and sobbed even as she vowed she wouldn’t cry.

  Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten that steamed. He stomped out to the barn, ignored the necessity for a saddle, and ripped out of the place on his gelding. He rode the palomino and finally cooled down enough to pull in on the reins. “Whoa, Hombre.”

  The horse stopped, then gladly obeyed Tim’s lead and paced at a slow rate to cool off. He nickered softly, then blew. When Tim patted his neck, he tossed his head and sidestepped a bit. “Sorry, boy. I got pretty hot under the collar there. Too bad the kid isn’t half as smart as you. He’d be far better off.”

  Tim looked around. The moonlit meadow all about him was beautiful. Cattle lowed and calves bawled here and there. Crickets and cicadas chirped and whirred. No matter how rotten a day went, he’d always managed to find a few seconds of peace in a place like this. It was why he’d bought the land. After having lost his wife and baby to cholera seven years ago, he’d needed seclusion and serenity. After riding for days, he’d camped overnight in this meadow and found a solitude to slightly ease the impossible ache in his chest. The very next day, he’d sought the owner and bought the place.

  He didn’t regret buying it. At least now, he didn’t. A week after he’d spent his last dime on it, he certainly did. Tied to that parcel of land, Tim couldn’t leave. The loneliness of building a home without anyone to share it settled into his heart and turned him into a virtual hermit.

  Only Fuller managed to break through his seemingly impenetrable shell and talk to him. Oh, he’d been rude to Fuller. He’d been down right nasty. Fuller didn’t even notice. He’d continued to be neighborly. He slowly chipped down the stone wall surrounding Tim’s heart enough to make him speak to others and relate to the world again . . . at least to the men. Tim knew he’d never love a woman again, though. It had been awful enough losing his folks when he was only fourteen. Losing Louisa and Tim, Jr. was more than he’d ever live through again.

  The familiar ache of loss radiated in his chest. He forced the air from his lungs in a long, steady flow. “That’s it, isn’t it, Lord? You’re trying to show me the kid’s acting angry at me like I acted toward the world after my loved ones passed on.”

  The gelding’s head bobbled, as if to agree.

  “That kid’s got spunk to him. Nothing but a scrawny matchstick of a body and a big head that takes nothing to strike him into a fiery temper, though.”

  An owl hooted, and Hombre stirred.

  “You know, Father, I’d take it kindly if you’d see fit to send Fuller home. Fuller’ll take care of the kid. He’s got a knack for handling the rough edges on folks. Sure as shootin’, he did it with me and Velma.” Tim sat and felt the dry wind ghost past. “I mean it, God. I know I’m supposed to listen and let you talk, but I’m desperate here. Your Word says you don’t give us more than we can handle. I’ve hit my limit.”

  Sydney slid into her seat at the breakfast table and noted Velma hadn’t set a place for Tim.

  The housekeeper plunked a plate onto the table in front of her. “Tim got an early start. Always does on Sundays. Tim goes over and rings the bells to wake folks who don’t have clocks, then sticks around to open windows and such. He’s that kind of man—the solid, strong-and-silent kind. But he gets more done at church and around Forsaken than three other men put together.”

  “I see.”

  Velma slid into a chair and took a slurp of coffee immediately after praying. “D’you know how to drive a buckboard?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re gonna learn today by driving me to church.” The housekeeper shook her head. “Doesn’t seem right, me taking you to church and lying to everyone about you.”

  “I could stay home.”

  “Nope.” Velma gave her the gimlet eye.

  Desperation clawed at her. “But you’ve decided to let me continue on as I have, haven’t you?”

  Velma didn’t give a prompt reply.

  The bite Sydney had just swallowed threatened to come back up. Her eyes pled with the housekeeper.

  “For now.” Velma’s voice sounded anything but reassuring.

  Even so, Sydney took a long, deep breath to steady herself.

  “This pretense of yours—I reckon it’s your business. But I’m not going to lie.”

  “I won’t ask you to. You can say . . .” Sydney strained for a moment to concoct something. “You can say I’m Fuller’s kin. That’s truthful.”

  “Hmpf.” Velma salted her hash browns. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You had to work to come up with what to say. Tells me you don’t indulge in lies or deception.”

  “Of course I don’t!” Just as soon as she spoke, Sydney bowed her head. “Truthfully, this whole masquerade bothers me. But I don’t have a choice. You even agreed with me—Uncle Fuller would send me away.” Her nose tingled and tears welled up. “I . . . I can’t explain it. I’ve never even met him, but I have to be with whatever is left of my fam—” Her voice cracked.

  “Family.” Velma finished for her. “Fuller was pleased as punch to know he had kin. He’s got a blind spot when it comes to dealing with women. I guess in this situation, your need is bigger than his whims.”

  Sydney tried to blink away her tears. Until now, she hadn’t admitted to herself how desperately she longed to still have a family. Her lips moved, but almost no sound came out. “Thank you.”

  “But I’m putting you on notice here and now, missy.” Velma shook her finger. “If Tim tries to tangle with you at all, I’m gonna spout off. I won’t have you getting hurt. I owe Fuller that much. He’d be mad as a wet hornet if I let that big galoot clobber you.”

  Sydney nodded.

  Velma taught her how to drive a buckboard on the way to church. “What’re you going to do about singing?”

  Sydney laughed. “I’m tone deaf. I simply read along and don’t sing because the sounds coming out of my mouth would frighten small children.”

  Velma slanted her a sideways look. “Then maybe you could play the accompaniment.”

  Shaking her head, Sydney confessed, “My music tutor quit. He told mama in all his years, he’d never once failed to teach a pupil a passable skill—until me.”

  “You danced just fine the other night.”

  “Thank you, but I was moving to the music, not making it. Do you always take your Bible to church?”

  “You don’t?” Velma looked shocked.

  Sydney shrugged. “At home the vicar reads the verses aloud. Our family Bible sits in the parlor. It’s quite substantial, so carrying it seems pretentious.”

  During the service, Sydney wasn’t sure what to think about these Americans and how they worshiped God. The hymns were the same, but thereafter things went differently. One of the older men went to the altar, turned, and spoke about parishioners! He mentioned ailments, concerns, and needs. At her church back home, such things were private. The preacher then prayed. He specifically asked for the Lord to see to each and every person who’d been mentioned.

  Instead of staying at the pulpit, the parson sat back down, and Big Tim stood there and read from the Bible.

  Sydney could hardly imagine she was hearing the story correctly. This wasn’t something she’d heard before. A man named Jacob pretended to be his older brother. By wearing Esau’s clothing and using animal skin to seem hairy, he fooled his father and received his brother’s birthright.

  What a dreadful man. He had no honor. In the next instant, Sydney looked down at herself. I’m wearing clothes that I shouldn’t be in so I can trick someone, too.

  She fought the urge to squirm.

  I’m not stealing anything. That’s the differenc
e.

  Reverend Bradle preached in an animated voice. Instead of sounding somber and profound, he preached as if he were talking to a room of dear friends. There was no mistaking he spoke with authority. Instead of coasting off into a daydream as she used to back home, Sydney hung on every word.

  As she left the church, Sydney looked around. She’d met most of the people at the Founder’s Day celebration. A nod of recognition at a distance or a handshake worked well. Sydney enjoyed seeing the neighbors again. They all seemed like good, decent folks. She escorted Velma out to the wagon, then frowned. The horse wasn’t standing right. Seeking out Tim was the last thing she wanted to do.

  Gulp stood a ways off. He shuffled from one boot to the other and even the tips of his ears glowed bright red as a woman spoke to him. He glanced over at Sydney.

  She made a beeline toward him. “Madam, please do accept my apologies for intruding. Gulp, it appears the horse to the buckboard is going lame.”

  “We can’t have that!” Gulp wheeled around and practically ran away.

  Sydney found herself the subject of squint-eyed scrutiny. “Gulp’s very knowledgeable regarding horses. I’d best see what there is to learn.”

  The moment Sydney reached Gulp’s side, he stooped over, pulled up the horse’s right front hoof, and pretended to study it with great concentration. “Kid, you done that real smooth. Gotta hand it to you. You pulled me away before that old battleaxe started harping.”

  “Widow O’Toole,” Sydney guessed aloud.

  “Yep.” Gulp muttered, “She’s lookin’ this way. Frown and act like something’s awrong.” Gulp pulled a knife from his belt.

  Sydney could scarcely credit it—the man wore a weapon into a house of worship?

  “I know you coulda dug this bitty little stone outta the hoof.” Gulp pried it free. “But you saved me.”

  “Forsaken’s men take care of each other.”

  He shot her a grin. “Kid, there’s hope for you.”

  “Are the two of you going to stand there jawing all afternoon?” Velma tapped her foot impatiently. “I left a roast in the oven.”