Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 5
“Very well.”
Tim scanned the kid and shook his head. “Whatever passed for men’s duds in London won’t cut it here. Baggy shirts and pants will get caught or chafe. Next time you go to town, get a few pair of britches and shirts that are boys’ size.”
Sydney’s jaw hardened. “Mr. Creighton, I happen to feel more comfortable in loose-fitting attire.” Then the kid added in a quieter grumble, “Besides, these are boys’.”
Tim nodded curtly and said nothing more. It doubtlessly galled Hathwell to have to buy boys’ clothing at his age. Hopefully, he’d soon have enough muscles and height to take up the slack in what he now wore.
There were men who never did get bigger than this. Wizened old Mr. Farber at the land survey office was a prime example. Then, too, that horse trainer over at the Franklin ranch wasn’t bigger than this. Tim knew some of it was a family trait, but he also suspected people were like crops. The ones that were tended and fed right grew best. Proper activity, training, and plenty of food might boost the kid into a sprouting season.
“I beg your pardon, but I didn’t understand what you just said.”
From Sydney’s comment and quizzical look, Tim realized he must have mumbled something under his breath. He shifted his weight. “Good food and hard work are what you need.”
“Velma’s cuisine is quite tasty.”
“Which leaves hard work.” Tim strode to the stable. “Bert!”
“In here!”
Sydney trotted alongside Tim like a spaniel pup. “My, look at the size of the stable! How many horses do we have?”
Tim couldn’t be sure whether the kid was claiming ownership or speaking in general terms. He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “The ranch owns two dozen. A couple of the hands own their own mounts, so the total tally is thirty-one.”
Syd’s eyes widened. “Thirty-one! I didn’t realize there were that many men here.”
“There aren’t. We keep three mounts for each man.” He shot Bert a look.
A slow grin creased Bert’s weathered face. “Back before the railroad was close, we kept five mounts per cowpoke.”
Craning his neck, Hathwell peered down the stable. “There aren’t that many stalls.”
Tim smacked him on the back. “Nope. Not that many at all. Shouldn’t take you long.”
“What shouldn’t take me long?”
Tim accepted the shovel from Bert and thrust it at the kid. “Muck.”
An eternity later, as she began to muck out yet another stall, Sydney shoved back a snarled tress. She shouldn’t have bothered to brush her hair that morning. The stable stank worse than an untended chamber pot. Just about the time she had a stall cleaned, the unmistakable noise of one of the horses relieving himself resounded in a nearby stall. For the first time in her life, she wondered if people who used crass language might not be cursing, but merely speaking a raw truth.
“Well, well, if it ain’t good ol’ Syd Hathwell.”
Sydney glanced over her shoulder. “Boaz.” She recognized the rangy black man from the brief introduction in the barnyard yesterday.
“Easy for you to recognize me, but I hardly knew it was you.”
Bert came over and elbowed him. “Don’t distract the kid. He’s got to concentrate hard to get the job done right.”
“Bet the kid wouldn’t recognize himself—not with a shovel in his hands.”
After Tim Creighton’s supper comments last night, Sydney anticipated the teasing and pranks that were bound to come her way. A woman would whine and chafe. A man would take it or even joke back. She flashed a cocky smile at him. “It beats scooping this muck up with my hands.”
Bert chuckled and leaned into a railing. “You’re gonna have blisters.”
“Future tense is unnecessary.”
“And you’re still shovelin’?” He grabbed a handful of her shirt and yanked. “Dumb greenhorn, wash ’em and put on gloves before you get something festering!”
“I didn’t bring gloves.”
“What man worth his salt don’t have gloves? Aww, forget it. We shoulda known you wouldn’t have something that sensible.” He turned loose of her shirt and strode to the far side of the stable. Yanking a pair of gloves from a dusty shelf, he looked at them and scowled. “These are gonna be too big. Blast, I ain’t never seen a man have such small hands.”
“It’s a Hathwell trait.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to boast about. It’s gonna make life harder for you.”
“I’ll simply purchase boys’ gloves when next I go to town.”
Tim Creighton stepped into view. Sydney didn’t know where he’d been, but a smudge of dirt on his rugged jaw testified to the fact that he’d been busy. Suddenly, earning his approval mattered. Her shovel scraped the floor. “I’ll be done in a few more minutes.”
“Fine. Bert, Velma said we’ve got a fox digging at the bottom of the henhouse again. Go fill it in and bury a few spikes for good measure.”
“Add a healthy dash of cayenne pepper to the last spadeful of dirt,” Sydney suggested.
“Huh?” Boaz looked puzzled.
“Cayenne pepper. Certainly Velma has some. It irritates the nose and eyes of a predator. The fox won’t likely come back very soon after getting a sample of it.”
Bert planted his hands on his hips. “’Zat so?”
“Indeed.”
“Boss?”
A crooked grin quirked the corner of Creighton’s mouth. “Try spikes in one half and pepper in the other. We’ll see if playing cook in the mud pie makes a whit’s worth of difference.”
Sydney smiled. “Care to place a friendly wager on the results?”
Bert perked up. “Sure!”
“No.” Tim scowled.
Boaz huffed. “Just ’cuz you don’t bet, Boss, doesn’t mean the kid can’t.”
“You men can bet among yourselves, but leave the kid out of it. He’s underage.”
Sure of her solution, Sydney shot Creighton an oh-so-innocent look. “Then why don’t you and I have a gentlemen’s agreement? Instead of money, perhaps we could settle on the loser having to do a chore.” Like muck the stable . . .
Tim crooked a brow.
Hooking the heel of his boot on a wooden slat, Bert drawled, “Boss, isn’t that henhouse due to be cleaned out?”
“It is.”
“So do we have an agreement?” Sydney strove to sound blasé . “If the fox goes through the cayenne, I clean the henhouse. If he goes through the other section, you do the honors.”
“Fine. It’s a deal.”
Sydney felt so smug, she hardly even noticed the weight or odor of those last few scoops of muck. “What next?”
“We’re going for a ride.”
“I’ll be ready immediately after I’ve seen to . . . matters. Where is the necessary?”
Creighton rolled his eyes. “There’s a tree out yonder.”
Heat shot through her. Sydney stared at him. She hadn’t even given a thought to the problem of how she might obtain privacy for her most basic needs. At the moment, she couldn’t imagine she’d been so ignorant. She murmured, “A moment with you please, Mr. Creighton.”
“What now?”
Heavens, the man sounded even more impatient, if that were possible. She leaned closer and stammered, “I . . . er, happen to have . . . um, digestive difficulties.”
“Why doesn’t that come as a surprise? All right. The outhouse is back over that way. Hurry up. I don’t have all day.”
Sydney hastened to the outhouse and strained to think about anything else she might have overlooked. Carrying on this masquerade wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped. While she had a few moments in that cobwebby, dank privy, she made sure the knot on her chest binding would stay secure. She wished she’d brought along powder. It used to keep her corset from chafing, and the binding rubbed dreadfully.
Chewing on a long shaft of grass, Tim watched her come back toward him. He didn’t bother to move the grass when he mutt
ered something to Bert.
Sydney pasted on a cocky smile and approached them. “Well? Did you decide on a suitable mount?”
“Diablo?” Bert suggested.
“Hmmm. Maybe . . . if you want to kill me off before I reach my majority.” Sydney grinned back. “Every horse given a name dealing with the occult seems to be wicked tempered. I could give it my best effort, but I do value my life.”
“Fuller might take exception to us trying that stunt,” Creighton agreed. “Coming home to a fresh grave would rile him. Let’s make it Kippy.”
“I’ll saddle him up,” Bert offered.
“Please, no. I need to learn to do it myself.” Moments later, Sydney regretted her impulsive denial. The beast was huge, and the saddle weighed a ton. Everything in her arms and back screamed as she rose up on her tiptoes to fling the saddle onto the horse’s back. She managed to get the halter and bit on correctly, even though she held her breath in fear that the horse would nip her with those huge yellow teeth.
After Sydney led Kippy into the yard, the men seemed to find cause to draw closer to watch the show. She tried her best to ignore their presence. It wasn’t easy, since they gave a running commentary on how poor they anticipated her performance would be. They planned on having a grand time watching her fail, and it tickled her. They were in for quite a surprise.
She steeled herself with a deep breath, reached up, and barely clasped the pommel. Big Tim didn’t clasp her waist to gently settle her into the saddle. Sydney didn’t expect him to. But he also didn’t lace his fingers together and let her put the sole of her boot in his hands as a makeshift stepstool. Instead, he grabbed her ankle and half tossed her upward.
Sydney flew clear over to the other side of the beast. Her near bootheel snagged and stuck on the saddle.
Never in her life had Sydney’s legs spread this wide. Kippy shuffled forward a step. Bloody images of falling and being trampled spurred her to flex her arms and pull herself upward.
Just as her shoulders and head popped above Kippy’s withers, Tim grabbed a fistful of her pant leg and tossed her leg over the horse.
She dipped for an instant, then found the stirrup and valiantly gained her seat. Sitting stiffly in the saddle, Sydney stared straight ahead. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Did Tim Creighton do all of that just to humiliate me?
“You don’t weigh as much as a barrel of flour,” he said gruffly.
That would have been a compliment for a woman. For a man, it didn’t happen to be very positive. Sydney gave him a stern glare. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to forgive him for holding her ankle, either. No man had ever been that familiar— even if she was parading about as a boy and wearing britches.
“I have to adjust these stirrups, too.” He tugged at a buckle near her shin. “You’re short.”
“Contrary to your belief, that particular flaw isn’t my doing. If you wish to lodge a complaint, take it to the Almighty.”
“Son, I already have a fair amount I’m asking the Lord for reckoning about. Plenty of things regarding you just got added onto the list.” Tim fixed both stirrups and heaved a great sigh.
“At least he knows how to hold the reins. Must’ve ridden a little,” Gulp proclaimed to the cowboys.
“Pointing those toes down, though. He’s a greenhorn.”
“Heels down, toes flat or up a bit,” Tim stated under his breath. “Keep your back straight like that, but loosen up a bit. You’re way too stiff, and the horse senses it. Relax and use your knees to direct him. A little thigh pressure, and he’ll respond.”
Tim slapped Kippy, but he may as well have slapped Sydney. No man had ever used such intimate anatomical terms as knee and thigh around her. She tensed, and the gelding started off at a brisk walk. The sudden move made her thighs tighten, and her heels instinctively dug inward to gain better balance. Kippy began to canter. It only got worse. She increased the pressure, and the gelding broke into a run.
“Sweet saints!” She leaned forward and hung on for dear life. Sydney then realized the pace wasn’t any different than when she was on a foxhunt. If anything, sitting astride gave her far better balance and control. She relaxed her legs, and Kippy slowed naturally. Giving herself permission to use the opportunity to play around with this new freedom, Sydney kicked the gelding and got him to a full-out run. They circled around a tree and returned to the ranch yard.
“Dog me, the kid can actually ride!” Gulp declared.
“Who woulda ever thunk it?” Merle marveled.
Tim grabbed the halter. “I thought you didn’t know how to ride.”
“I’ve never ridden like this—in this kind of saddle.” As soon as she made that proclamation, Sydney felt a sense of utter horror. How could she have been so stupid? She’d just given away her secret!
“Those bitty little English saddles are what you used? I’ve seen them. No wonder you questioned your ability.”
“Yes,” she breathed in sheer relief.
“I’ll mount up and we can take a gander at the grounds.” Tim turned and left her amidst the circle of ranch hands.
Surveying them, Sydney grinned impishly. “I do hope one of you was wise enough to put a few dollars down on my riding ability. In view of the general consensus that I’d be an abysmal failure before I got started, the financial return was probably quite satisfying.”
Jack chortled as he gave her an open-handed smack of goodwill on her thigh. “Sonny, you just earned me three bucks. Next time we’re in town, your first beer is on me.”
Beer? She’d never had beer in her whole life. Still, Sydney knew she’d have to play along. Nodding, she lowered her voice as best she could. “Thanks. I’ll look forward to that.” What she truly wanted to do was turn around and smack him back and rub her leg. He’d probably left a huge wheal, and her thigh stung.
Tim Creighton reappeared. He fluidly swung up into the saddle of a handsome palomino. “Let’s get going. You men, if you thought to keep jawing, just remember that Fuller wanted the north fence reinforced before he got back.”
He jerked his head slightly to the side, as if to say, “follow me,” and took off at a slow canter. Sydney experimentally nudged her heels into the gelding and felt a surge of pleasure that he moved faster. She watched Big Tim. The man could ride; he and his horse moved in perfect rhythm. She’d grown up watching gentlemen ride, but none of them ever commanded a horse as Big Tim did.
They rode a fair bit away from the others before their horses found a comfortable side-by-side gait. Tim pointed out a few salient landmarks, then halted his mount at the peak of a gentle hillock. Sydney had to not only stop Kippy, but struggled to get him to backstep. Her success felt good, though, and Tim’s slight smirk of a smile was ample reward. They sat there as Tim gazed off at the horizon.
Sydney took the opportunity to study him more closely. His eyes were definitely gray. His hair needed a decent trim as the edges looked uneven and ragged. His shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs, too. His body and the horse’s seemed to blend as one, since his trousers and the horse’s coat were the same shade.
“What are you smirking at?”
His words jolted her out of her perusal, but with her usual candor, Sydney informed him, “You look like Pan.”
“Pan?”
“In Greek mythology—he was the god of herds. He’s half man, half—well, not goat. Horse, in your case.”
His brow crooked.
I’m babbling, she realized and cleared her throat. For a fleeting moment, she tried to be silent, but Tim’s steely look set her off into an explanation. “There are creatures in other cultures’ myths, legends, and tales. Satyrs have the top half of a man, and the waist joins where the neck of a beast meets the body. With your trousers and the horse’s coat so similar in hue, the likeness is remarkable.”
“And so you remarked upon it.”
“Obviously.”
He gave her a cold look. “Kid, I’m going to lay things on the line with you.”
“You need an education in just about everything except useless book learning. That kind of knowledge is likely to get you into real trouble. A satyr, for your enlightenment, happens to be insatiable. He lusts after anything in a skirt and exercises no restraint. I could take real exception to your characterization of me.”
Heat scorched a path from her bodice to her brow. Even her ears burned. Revelry. Pan was known for his revelry—but lasciviousness? Dear mercy, they sanitized— “Growing up privileged made a freak of you. Unless you do a lot of learning fast, the boys in the bunkhouse are gonna eat you alive.”
“I’ve proved I can ride.”
“Stick to riding. The way your hips sway when you walk, you look like a girl.”
Cold terror washed over her. “A girl?”
“Knew that’d gall you. I’m of a mind to strap a holster around you to weight you down a mite. Between that and you using your butt instead of your thighs to move those nubs you call legs, that ought to solve the problem.”
“Really!” The man had absolutely no class.
“Really,” he drawled. “The difficulty is, you’ll be fool enough to have a bullet in each chamber and blow off a few toes.”
“Give me your pistol.” She extended her hand.
“You aren’t going to shoot me, are you?” Tim reached for his holster.
“Believe me, if ever I were tempted, most surely ’tis now. Nonetheless, I’ll refrain from that and give you a demonstration.” He still looked dubious, but Sydney decided to take the opportunity to prove she wasn’t helpless. “Is the barrel true on this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Capital. See that knob on the tree stump over in the clearing?”
“Yup.”
She took aim and fired. Without even checking to confirm her results, she handed back the weapon. “Now you don’t.”
Amazement altered his tanned features.
“As Cervantes said, ‘Thou hast seen nothing yet.”’ She handed back the weapon. “Your pistol’s nicely balanced.”