“C’mon in!” an unseen woman hollered before Sydney reached the screen door.
A short, heavy woman in a blue calico apron lumbered up. She bumped the door open with her hip and wiped her hands on a dish towel. A thin stripe of gray by her left temple was scraped back with the rest of her inky hair into a lopsided bun at the top of her head. Intelligence sparkled in her coffee-colored eyes, and laugh lines proved she had a sense of humor. “You must be Sydney. Been expecting you. Got two extra bedrooms upstairs. Go on ’head and pick one. I don’t much care which. I’ll have to put sheets on the bed. No use in letting sheets go stale on a bed that lies empty.”
“Yes, I’m Hathwell. One of the hands mentioned your name. I believe it was Velma, was it not?”
“Was and still is.” She grinned. “Now get out of my hair. I’ve got plenty to do. Supper’s in an hour. I’ll holler once and only once. You show up or you go hungry. I’m not about to start toting water up and down the stairs for anybody, so you’ll have to pump your own from the kitchen if you want to use the washbowl in your chamber.”
She won’t start, so that means she normally doesn’t perform that task even for my uncle. Well, with only one house servant, allowances need to be made. “I’ll see to filling my pitcher. Bert mentioned Uncle Fuller is in Abilene.”
“Yep. Be back in ’bout ten days, give or take a few. Depends on how the cure is going. Your uncle ain’t the kind to stick around and do any tom cattin’.”
The housekeeper’s frank acknowledgment of a man’s baser needs astonished Sydney. Her eyes widened, though she did manage to keep her jaw from dropping.
Slapping her on the shoulder and nearly knocking her down, the housekeeper cackled. “Boy, ain’t nothing old Velma don’t know ten times over by now. My mama ran a bordello down in N’Awlins. Nothing surprises me.”
“Out of respect for your sensibilities—”
Velma cackled even louder. “I don’t pull any punches. The hands out there know not to pussyfoot around me. I take no sass, and I don’t take any passes. Long as you remember those two things, you and me—we’ll get along just fine.”
“Fine,” Sydney echoed in an unsteady tone. She looked at the stairs with dismay. She knew full well that no young man would stand there and complain about the heat and dust and his aching feet, though she was sorely tempted to do all three.
“Kid, you’d best move on. Big Tim’s gonna be bustling through soon, and he’ll mow over the likes of you faster than a toad gulps flies.”
It was not a reassuring metaphor. Sydney shuffled forward. “I’ll locate a chamber and meet you for supper.”
“You do that. Tim’s going to give you a hard once-over. You ought to put on something a whole lot plainer if you don’t want to have him squirm all through the meal. He’s not a man to abide fussy manners and clothes.”
Sydney noticed the cowboys were all in shirtsleeves, but surely landowners would wear respectable attire and dress for dinner. “I’m wearing a simple cravat!”
Velma threw back her head and roared in the most unladylike display of sound Sydney had ever witnessed. “That was a good one. Now scamper on up and let me get back to work.”
Lugging the valise up the stairs tested Sydney’s mettle. Her shoulders felt as if they couldn’t bear such a burden for a second longer. Once she reached the head of the stairs, she walked straight into the first chamber and dropped the valise. Nothing short of a pistol aimed at her head would convince her to pick up that load again.
The bedchamber held a modest bedstead and a nice threedrawer chest with a carved mirror above it. Heavy green damask curtains swagged back from the window, and faded cabbage rose wallpaper finished the decor.
Sydney smiled at the room. She could spruce it up with a little attention and care. In truth, it was far prettier than what she’d planned to find in the midst of this wild place. The glimpse she’d gotten of the downstairs let her know the other rooms, though well worn, were tastefully appointed, too. Perhaps Texas didn’t entirely lack civilized touches. The mixture of refinement and commonplace struck her as oddly charming. Sorting out when to apply rules and when to cast them aside would be a delightful challenge.
But that challenge could wait. She dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Her feet ached every bit as much as they did after a long evening of dancing with several suitors. Heel, toe, sole, and instep all burned and ached. Struggling out of the boots, she rubbed her toes and decided to fetch a pitcher of water so she could wash up and soak her feet. After that, she’d unpack and find her most unprepossessing shirt.
As she reviewed Velma’s words and considered all of the men she’d seen, Sydney had an alarming thought. Big Tim would mow her over? Big Tim, as in Tim Creighton? That couldn’t possibly be the rude giant whom she’d seen already. Shaking her head to dislodge the troublesome thought, Sydney convinced herself the man outside was too . . . something to be the second-in-command. Terse and rough-edged and gruff and, well, dirty. Those very attributes convinced her whoever it was couldn’t possibly be in a position of authority. Cheered by that thought, she went in search of water.
Under an hour later, the clock downstairs struck. Sydney heard Velma’s call for supper and hastily smoothed her hair as she glanced in the mirror over the chest of drawers to ascertain if she’d done a sufficient job of binding herself. Twisting sideways, she craned her neck and examined the effect. A small smile tilted her lips as she gleefully judged, “Perfect!”
She left her room and started down the stairs. Halfway down, she practically got run over by an express train of a man who gallumped down the very same flight. His boots made a muffled thunder that carried an oddly rhythmic quality, and his large body didn’t seem to move at all from the hips up as those log-thick legs churned with surprising agility and grace. Once he hit the foot of the stairs, the stranger stopped and gave her a cool, assessing look. Without a word, he wheeled to the right and strode off.
She remained rooted to the stairs.
He can’t be Uncle Fuller’s partner. He can’t—even if he did clean up into a respectable-looking man. Truth be told, he cut a fine figure. For all of the refined gentlemen she’d seen in high society, none had ever looked half as imposing or innately capable of facing anything life might bring.
Following the scent of food, Sydney went in the same direction he had. With every step she promised herself Uncle Fuller’s partner probably invited the rude giant to be a dinner guest. Yes, of course. That was it. Heartened by that realization, Sydney continued on.
She stopped cold in the doorway. That man sat at the huge trestle table. Alone. He’d already started serving himself. He’d spruced up on the outside, but that was it. The man still failed to exhibit even a hint of manners.
Velma thumped a bowl of mashed potatoes onto the table. “Sydney Hathwell, have you met Tim Creighton yet?”
“Mr. Creighton?” Her voice cracked like an adolescent’s.
Grabbing for his coffee, Creighton nodded. “Hathwell.”
Velma shooed her toward the table with a few brisk sweeps of her hands. “Don’t just stand there. Your food’s getting cold.”
Sydney pulled out the chair and sat down. Unaccustomed to seating herself, she took several minuscule scoots to draw close enough to the table.
“We say grace at meals here.” Creighton didn’t pause for a response. He bowed his head. “Almighty Lord, we praise and thank you for this bounty. Bless Fuller and grant him your healing touch. In all things, let us be your servants. Amen.”
Though they usually didn’t pray at home unless company joined them, Sydney considered Creighton’s prayer lacking. She added a few extra lines of thanks for her safe arrival and begged the Creator for guidance and help. It looked as if she was going to need it. Mr. Tim Creighton was going to be difficult. . . .
I started out thinking this would be easy, but I was wrong. Well, the challenge will make my time here go by quickly.
As she slipped her napkin across her t
highs, Sydney tried to approach conversation as she’d done back home. Civility might tame the beast a bit. “So, Mr. Creighton, where are your people from?”
“My people?”
“Yes. Your people. Your family.”
“I don’t have a family.”
The curt clip of his voice let her know to cease pursuing that line of talk, so she segued, “Pity. You’ve certainly done well for yourself. Forsaken appears to be a fine spread.”
“How would you know enough to make that judgment?”
“I walked the length of the road. The fence is well kept, and the house is quite stunning. Then, too, there are all sorts of cows everywhere.”
“Cattle—not ‘cows’—and they’re not everywhere. We’ve moved them to pasture off at the southeastern sector for the moment. Other sections are empty at present to let the grasses grow.”
“Oh.”
“Do you ride? Most gentlemen are trained at horsemanship, aren’t they?”
She fought the telling blush that heated her cheeks. Last night it had dawned on her that she’d have to ride astride. Such a skill must, of necessity, be altogether different from perching on a sidesaddle. Though she was quite proficient at riding in a lady’s saddle, straddling anything would be a shock. “I . . . er . . . excelled at studies. My time has been spent in academic pursuits.”
“Hence the smooth, narrow hands and a complete lack of any muscle on those spindles you call arms.”
The man shoveled food in like an animal! Nearly mesmerized by the precision with which he sliced off huge chunks of meat and devoured them, Sydney hardly felt the sting of his implied insult.
“Did you study anything of particular interest?”
“Oh yes. Greek history, Roman mythology, Latin, and poetry. I also appreciate fine art.”
“So much for the frills.” Tim took a big swig of coffee. “No one round here speaks Latin or walks around spouting poetry. Best painting in these parts is a sign in the feed store. Did you study anything useful?”
“I scarcely believe you’d find dancing or British history to be of practical application here in the West.”
“You got that right.” Waving a fork in the air and disregarding the fact that mashed potatoes plopped back onto the plate, Tim announced, “No one sits on their tail around this spread. You’re going to have to carry your weight.”
“I plan to do just that.”
“Yes, you will. You’d best be ready—because come sunup, you’re going to start earning your keep.”
“Mr. Creighton, I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ll also remind you that I’m not exactly a hired hand to be ordered about like some kind of liveried lackey.” She wiggled in her chair slightly, squared her shoulders, and dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “There is my position to be considered.”
Creighton leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and scowled. “Fancy Pants, you’ve got it wrong. That stinkin’ title of yours isn’t worth a hill of beans around here. I don’t care if you’ve got a crown permanently affixed to your head—you’d better slap a hat over it because you’ll still have to work.”
The man wasn’t just blunt; he was rude. He completely lacked couth. Sydney gave him a disbelieving stare.
He glowered straight back. “Fuller’s a hardworking man. He expects every man on Forsaken to earn his keep. You’re no exception.”
Sydney reared back at the force of his words. “I say, there’s no call to be uncivilized.”
“We aren’t civilized around here. Best get that through your head. Life is rough. Rugged. Hard,” he hammered at her in a harsh tone. “You don’t toughen up, you won’t survive. Pure and simple, the useful survive. The weak don’t.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Take it however you want, but you’re due up at daybreak. I respect your uncle too much to let him come home to an English dandy of a nephew. By the time he gets here, you’ll have learned enough to make yourself useful.”
“That’s only a week away!”
“Don’t remind me. I already have indigestion from watching you eat. You chew meat longer than a cow chews a wad of cud.”
Sydney’s fork and knife clattered to the plate. “That was less than appropriate table conversation!”
“Spoil your appetite?”
“It’s apparent nothing spoils your appetite. You’ve torn into a perfectly delightful meal with no more manners than a rabid wolf.”
“Wolves tear apart baby animals that are wet behind the ears. Don’t forget that, sonny.” Creighton took a huge bite, gnashed on it only half a dozen times, and swallowed while staring at her.
Sydney caught herself swallowing along with him.
Tim gave her a smile that showed every last one of his teeth. After that, there wasn’t any more supper conversation.
Sydney went to bed and lay in the dark, horrified. To be sure, the soft bed felt great, but her mind reeled with Tim Creighton’s actions. How could Uncle Fuller have left her to the vagaries of such a boor? A big one, too. She’d tried to convince herself he wouldn’t be worthy of a second-in-command position, and seeing him at the table came as a terribly rude shock.
The way he acted as if she were the problem galled her; yet, that was precisely his perspective on things—and he made no bones about it. But if every man here works, he’s right. I’m useless.
Sydney had to admit she presented a unique challenge to the man. He obviously liked Uncle Fuller and wanted him to be spared the pain of seeing a relative who was pitifully inept. Just what would this deception demand of her?
The idea of misleading others went against her deep sense of honor, but it paled in comparison to the appalling alternative of becoming Rex Hume’s wife.
Sydney determined she would have to be a man’s man and quickly realized she’d have to develop mettle to make it through. I always did love a challenge.
Chapter Three
The door rattled on its hinges from a sound smack, but Tim got no response. Velma yelled from downstairs, “Sun’s almost up! Get movin’.”
Tim wrenched the doorknob, crossed the small bedchamber, and grabbed the mattress. One quick flick of his wrists, and Hathwell tumbled through the air and hit the floor with a resounding thud. The kid let out a shrill yelp.
“Velma gave you a wake-up call fifteen minutes ago.” Tim dumped the mattress back down on the bed frame. Disgust twisted his features as he watched the kid clutch the rumpled bedsheets to his nightshirted chest. “Stop squawking. Get on your feet and get moving. If you don’t show up to eat in five minutes, Velma’ll use the flapjacks to slop the hogs.”
“Five minutes!”
Tim shot him a heated look. “Don’t ever expect me to tilt you outta your bed again.”
“I won’t!”
Tim didn’t stick around to listen to the kid whine. No use in both of them eating Velma’s flapjacks cold. He sat down to breakfast, said grace, and implored God to intervene with Fuller’s nephew. If ever a situation existed that required divine intervention, surely this was it.
Eight minutes later Tim watched in utter disbelief as the youngster carefully cut a single, tiny bite of a flapjack and daintily slipped it between his lips. The kid even crooked his pinkie like a fussy old woman. Tim propped his elbows on the table and fought the urge to bury his head in his hands.
“Eat up, kid.”
“I have gracious plenty, thank you.”
One flapjack and two rashers of bacon. How could that possibly be enough? No wonder the kid is skin and bones.
Hathwell scanned the table and frowned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t see the sugar or cream.”
“Black and strong enough to float a horseshoe—that’s how men drink their coffee. Finish eating. Work’s piling up.”
Piling up. Tim smothered a grin. After the words slipped out of his mouth, he realized he’d made an unintended pun. The stable reeked in the morning from the horses’ piles. Fancy Pants Hathwe
ll might not possess a single skill, but that wouldn’t matter. Anyone could grab a shovel and muck out stalls—and that was precisely what Tim planned to assign the kid. Last night the conversation ruined Hathwell’s appetite. If he knew precisely what awaited him, he wouldn’t eat another bite.
Hathwell took a sip of coffee and cut another miniscule bite from his flapjack. “Organization is key to success. I presume you and my uncle have routines that keep matters well in hand.”
“There’s a general routine, but animals have a habit of putting a kink in whatever plans we make. There’s not a man on this spread who lacks the full array of necessary skills.” Tim gave Sydney a telling look. “I’ll see to it you learn the ropes.”
“Ropes!” The kid perked up. “That would be capital! I’d love to learn how to throw the lariat!”
Tim inwardly winced at how the kid pronounced it “larryette.” A Mexican vaquero, Juan called his a riata. Tim immediately discarded that possible term. The kid would mangle it, too. “It takes time, practice, and diligence to handle a lasso.”
“Well, then, I suppose once I become proficient with the larry-ette, I’ll move on to the lasso.”
“Lasso is another term for lariat.” Tim pronounced it larryut and hoped the kid would get the hint. “When someone learns the ropes, it means they gain proficiency in the essentials. You’ll tend other basics before you throw a lasso.”
The kid’s brows puckered. Tim couldn’t be sure whether it was from displeasure at that news, or from the sip of black coffee he drank. It didn’t matter. Either way, Fancy Pants Hathwell was going to endure plenty of things he didn’t relish.
“This is a cattle ranch, not a cotillion.” Tim rose. “Finish up and be quick about it.”
Sydney bolted to his feet. “I rarely eat breakfast. Shall we go?”
Tim gave no response. He pivoted and headed across the floor and out the door.
The kid scrambled to keep up with him as they went toward the stable. “I see the staff is hard at work. That’s commendable.”
“It’s expected.” Tim stopped and locked eyes with him. “Get this straight: they’re not staff. They’re hands or cowboys or the men—or punchers or pokes.”
Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 4