“How long?” she asked in a high, tight voice.
“The way you feel right now, even one minute is an eternity.”
The truth of his words hit home. No one had empathized as he just had. Sydney tried to contain her emotions long enough to run upstairs, but Tim didn’t let her off the settee. Wrapping his arms about her, he cupped her head to his shoulder and held her as she wept. When she wound down, Tim wiped the tears from her face.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Grief.” He tipped her face up to his. “Even Jesus wept when His friend Lazarus died.”
His words erased most of the embarrassment she felt. Still, she’d let her own grief overflow when he’d shared his own loss. “It’s ghastly—what you went through.”
“It was. Fuller was a stalwart friend to me, even while I shook my fist and railed against God.”
Surprise streaked through her sorrow. Sydney didn’t know anyone else had felt that way. “At my parents’ gravesides, the vicar said God gave and took away and we were supposed to bless His name. I thought that was a vile thing to say.”
“It’s from the Bible. Job says it. It took me a long time to be thankful for the time God granted me with Louisa and Timmy, instead of resenting Him for taking them away. Longer, still, for memories to bring pleasure instead of pain.”
Though sorely tempted to nestle close and draw strength from Tim, Sydney pushed away and smoothed her dress. “It’s . . . reassuring to hear it will get easier.”
“The most important things take time.”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily.” A winsome smile lifted her lips. “Mama and Father met and married within a day.”
Tim’s eyes widened.
She nodded. “Honestly. I suppose that is the proverbial exception that proves the rule.”
He chuckled. “I can’t blame him if your mother had half your fire and beauty.” He rose and started across the parlor. “Since you’re enjoying that magazine, we could get you a subscription. Either that, or Godey’s Lady’s Book. Do you have a preference?”
“Why, thank you,” she stammered. In her experience, men flattered women because they wanted attention. Tim had paid her the nicest compliment of her life and then had changed the topic just as abruptly. “Either magazine would be lovely.”
He cast her a sly smile. “I could recommend a few books on cattle ranching.”
Laughter bubbled out of her. He’d held her while she cried, yet now he cheered her up. “You, Timothy Creighton, are a hopeless scoundrel.”
“I might well be a scoundrel, but I am far from hopeless.”
Tim set aside his Bible and stared out the window. Faint streaks of lavender and gold tinted the predawn sky. The colors Sydney wears. And she’s living in darkness. Lord, she’s hurting and so lost.
The floorboard at the head of the stairs creaked. Tim opened his door. “What are you doing up?”
Sydney turned and whispered, “Shhh. Velma’s sleeping.”
He picked up his boots and walked down the stairs with Sydney. As they reached the last step, he repeated, “What are you doing up?”
“I thought I’d start coffee, gather eggs, and check on Moustache.”
“It’s early.”
She shrugged. “I had a nap yesterday. Lolling about in bed is useless. Hot as it’s getting at midday, I’ve noticed you’re doing a lot of work earlier.”
He nodded. While she started coffee, he plopped down and yanked on his boots. “Don’t get attached to that calf, Sydney. He’s beef on the hoof, not a pet.”
“What’s wrong with having a pet?”
“A pet shouldn’t outweigh its owner.”
She smiled. “Moustache doesn’t.”
“If I were a betting man, I’d wager he already has a good ten to fifteen pounds on you.”
“Me?”
“He’s five weeks. A solid hundred and five pounds—maybe a shade more.” He stomped his foot into his second boot and looked at Sydney’s astonished expression. “No offense intended. You’re a slight woman is all.”
“I have no notion what I might weigh. I’ve never stepped foot on a scale, but that’s not the issue. You and Uncle Fuller own the animals. Compared to a tall, muscular man like you, Moustache—”
“Will pass my weight before Christmas.” Her crestfallen look tore at him. “If you’re that worried about him, come on out. You can make sure he’s bucket-feeding well.”
Once they were in the barn, he left Sydney to coo over the calf while he led one of the two milk cows to a stanchion. Sydney approached him. “If you teach me how, I can do that.”
Tim snorted. “In that dress?”
“I intend for the milk to go into the pail, not on my clothing.”
“You’d break your neck, trying to balance on a milking stool.” He pulled out the small log with a board nailed into a T-shape across the top.
“You thought I couldn’t ride or shoot, either.” She snatched it from him and started to walk behind the cow.
Tim yanked her back. “That’s begging for her to kick you. You’re right-handed, so you milk from the right. Bessie’s used to right-siders. If you went to the left, she’d pitch a fit.”
Sydney listened intently. “Thank you for that instruction. Now if you’d be so kind as to turn your head for a moment . . .”
“Why?” He scowled. “The stool doesn’t go underneath your skirts!”
“What would you know of it? You’ve never worn skirts.” She stuck her forefinger in the air and twirled it in a silent order for him to turn.
“Oh, brother.” Tim turned and prepared to whip back around and catch her as she fell.
“I suppose I should have the pail ready. Might you please hand it to me?”
Tim turned and knelt beside her. The crazy woman had managed to sit on the milking stool properly and even had her skirts artfully arranged to the side, out of the way. Sliding the pail in place, he wondered how he’d manage to tell her what to do without offending her sensibilities.
She tilted her head toward him but didn’t look his way. In the barest whisper, she said, “I’m glad you’re my friend. That way, I don’t have to be embarrassed about this.”
Friends. As a “boy,” Sydney had become a young protégé— a friend. Ever since he’d discovered the truth, Tim had put distance between them. Only she’d sneaked past his guard all over again. He couldn’t deny it. “Yes, Syd. We’re friends. Here’s what you do.”
A while later, she stood back and watched Moustache slurp milk from the bucket. “He’s such a bright calf, Tim. See how he’s taken to it?”
“Uh-oh.” Pancake sauntered over. “Syd’s getting mooneyed over that beast, Tim. Maybe I ought to get some chalk and mark him so she’ll see the ribs and roasts and steaks he’s gonna become.”
“Turn him out to pasture for the day.” If only the calf were female. I could have kept her as a breeder and made Sydney happy. Tim fought the urge to reassure Sydney that the calf wouldn’t go to market. Kids who grew up on a ranch learned early on that the animals represented food, not companionship. Sydney planned to stay; she had to learn it, too.
“I’ll go gather eggs.” Sydney stopped at the door to the barn. “Pancake? Don’t bother with the chalk. Moustache is already marked like he’s supposed to become a saddle.”
Once she was out of earshot, Pancake kicked a bale of hay. “Blast it. Why’d she go and say that? Bad enough, she named him. Now I’m gonna feel like a snake when we drive him off to market.”
It should have been insignificant. Only Tim couldn’t get it out of his mind. Sydney had already lost everything. That evening she showed up in the barn, milked the cow, and fed Moustache. Moustache butted the bucket and doused her skirts.
“So that’s how you feel about my cooking?” She laughed and picked up the bucket. “I’m sure Tim would agree.”
“You’re learning.” He pointed at her hem. “That’s why clothes like that don’t belo
ng out here.”
“Nonsense. Clothes wash.”
“Yeah, but you and Velma finished the laundry this afternoon.” His eyes narrowed. “And her washing machine would rip the daylights out of that.”
“Her Blackstone machine is a marvel, isn’t it?” Sydney plucked a little piece of hay from her sleeve. “Warm as it is, I can hand wash this now, and it’ll be dry by bedtime.”
When he went to the house, her dress fluttered on the clothesline. Somehow, when she wore her gowns, they seemed . . . pretty. Feminine. But on the clothesline, with the skirts all pinned out to keep them from dragging, the creation looked impossibly out of place. Yards upon yards spread out, pinned clear across the line, the delicate ruffles and lace mocking their rugged surroundings.
“Flutter your fan, don’t flap it.” Sydney stood in the parlor, reached over, and guided Linette’s hand.
Marcella laughed. “If you had a fan in the other hand, you’d start flying like a goose!”
Linette’s lower lip began to quiver.
Sydney cast a look at Marcella. “‘Jests that give pains . . .”’ “‘. . . are no jests.”’ Marcella completed the quote. “Sorry, Linny.”
Linette closed the fan with an awkward slap and wailed, “I can’t do this. I’ll never catch a man!”
“I hope you never do!” Sydney snatched the fan from her and gave her a playful tap on the wrist with it. “The gentleman is to catch you! If you don’t feel comfortable with a fan, you needn’t use one.”
“But when you use it, you look so . . . charming.” Linette sniffled.
“Despair is a folly brought on when we compare ourselves.” Sydney opened the fan and fluttered it. “Or so my mother told me when I wished with all my might that I’d be a tall, blue-eyed blonde.”
“You’ll never be tall, blue-eyed, or blond,” Katherine said.
“Indeed, I won’t. Even though that is all the rage in London. So I learned to use a fan instead. You, Linette, are willowy, blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired. I’m so impressed at how gracefully you’re holding yourself. Your posture is positively regal.”
“I’ve been working on it!”
Katherine looked down at her hands. “Mama made up that recipe Velma had with glycerin and rosewater. My hands are so soft now, no one would believe I shucked corn all last week. I was afraid none of the men would want to dance with me when they saw my hands.”
“And I, thanks to your wonderful lessons, am able to make applesauce cake. I plan to bake one for the dance.” Sydney clasped her hands. “So we’re all helping one another. Shall we practice dancing again?”
Marcella moaned. “I’m hopeless. Even Daddy won’t dance with me. He said I’ve broken every one of his toes twice.”
“All the more reason to practice.” Sydney lifted the vase from the occasional table and placed it on the mantel. “Marcella, would you and Linette please scoot the settee over against that wall there? Yes, below the cross. And, Katherine, you’re such a dear to move that table. Look at all this space we’ve made! Outstanding!”
While they practiced to the tinkling music of a music box, Tim clomped through the house. Linette called out, “Come join us! We need a man!”
Tim shook his head and said in a terse voice, “I’ve got work to do. Velma? Pancake needs your tweezers. He’s got a splinter.”
After Tim strode back outside with the tweezers, Linette sighed. “He’s never going to fall in love with me. It breaks my heart. I wish I were beautiful.”
“You are beautiful.” Sydney held Linette’s hands and squeezed. “You know how I adore Cervantes.”
“You quote his writings the way the parson quotes the Bible.”
Sydney smiled. “Well, he wrote many wise things, and one of them comes to mind right this very minute: ‘All kinds of beauty don’t inspire love; there is a kind that pleases on the sight, but does not captivate the affections.’ You wouldn’t want a man who merely wanted you to be a decoration on his arm. How very empty a marriage would be if all that mattered to your husband was your appearance! You want a husband who will love your zest for life and appreciate the gentleness you show children.”
Tim didn’t venture near the house again until long after the Richardsons left. He didn’t say much at supper, so Sydney waited to speak until Velma left the supper table to get the applesauce cake. She cleared her throat to gain his attention. “Tim, if it bothers you so much for the Richardson girls to come here, I could go to their farm.”
“No.” The word lashed out of him. He pointed his fork at her. “You’re staying put. If anyone caught wind of you being there, men would storm the place.”
“That would be wonderful!”
He scowled. “No man is getting within ten feet of you unless Fuller approves of him.”
“But think how lovely it would be for Linette and—”
“Sydney, you’re doing a right fine job with ’em from what little I’ve seen, but any man in the world would ignore them with you around. Those girls are dull as dishwater compared to you.” He stabbed his fork in his meat and muttered, “Then again, water is getting so scarce . . .” His head shot back up. “But you’re staying on Forsaken. I’ll put up with those girls being here as long as I don’t get trapped into anything.”
“Sydney, I told you that gown’s too fancy for you to wear while milking and feeding—see there?” Tim shook his head.
“Everything rinsed out last time. Is it my imagination, or is Moustache growing bigger?” She merely laughed when the calf licked at her hand and skirt.
Tim pushed the calf away. “I’m putting him out to pasture. He’s plenty big enough now. Has been for days.”
She compressed her lips and nodded.
Feeling like a brute, Tim knew he couldn’t let her continue to dote on the beast. “You knew this would happen. This is the way things have to be. Don’t be disappointed.”
Sydney reached over and petted the calf ’s red face and traced the edge of the white moustache. “It’s not your fault, Tim. I understand.”
“Good. If you think on it, I’m sure you can come up with one of Cervantes’ axioms that will apply.” There. That would give her something to occupy her mind.
“‘Man appoints, and God disappoints.”’
“Sydney!” Horror streaked through him. Was that her image of God?
“I’d better go rinse out my dress.” Her expression was guarded. “You told me not to be disappointed, and that’s what popped into my mind. I know you believe the reverse—that God appoints and man disappoints. Maybe both are true. Please don’t say anything. I don’t want to discuss religion just now.”
Tim fought the urge to chase after her after she turned and walked away. Instead, he stared up at the heavens. “Lord, Sydney’s got so much roiling inside. Ever since she figured she’s a sinner, too, she’s been struggling. I don’t know what to do or how to help. That girl needs you. She needs you bad.”
The next morning, Sydney hastened outside after breakfast to hang out her dress so it could finish drying again. Tim shook his head.
Velma poked his arm. “Don’t you go back to judging her by her duds, Big Tim. She’s got a plan, and if you say anything, you’ll spoil it. By the way, Sydney made a couple of big, fat sandwiches for you and put them in a bucket with an apple. That way, you don’t have to wade past the Richardson gals while we’re having our sewing bee today.”
He grunted and walked off.
It wasn’t long before just about every woman and child for miles around arrived. Mrs. Orion and Heidi rode in a buckboard with the pastor’s wife and some of the other town women. Heidi waved to him. “Mr. Creighton! Come look!”
He strode over and helped the ladies alight. The Widow O’Toole paraded into the house carrying a cake. Heidi wiggled by his side until he helped the last woman. “Look!” The little girl stuck out her foot. “Mr. Matteo—he fixed my old shoes extra special!”
Tim grinned. Matteo had replaced the rivet for the buckle— but he
’d also cut out the toes to turn the almost-toosmall shoes into sandals. He’d stained them red, too. “Aren’t those a sight!”
“Jesus wore sandals. Mama says it’s a reminder to me to be good like Jesus wants me to.”
“Come, Heidi. Mr. Creighton’s a busy man.” Mrs. Orion took hold of the wooden handle of her sewing box and grabbed Heidi’s hand.
Tim winked at the little girl. “Your mama’s right about those sandals. Show them to Lady Sydney.”
“Big Tim,” the parson’s wife said, “could you please carry this crate into the house?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Bradle.”
As he walked up the porch steps, Heidi was showing Sydney her sandals. On his way back out, Sydney said, “Isn’t that true, Big Tim?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Orion was admiring that dress I hung up to finish drying. I told her it’s unsuitable for ranch life. You said so yourself, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“See?” Sydney grabbed Mrs. Orion’s hands in hers. “My second cousin’s wife understood my wishes to wear proper mourning for Father. I fear she went a bit overboard, though. It’s been over a year now—” Sydney closed her eyes, then took a steadying breath. “Gray, mauve, purple, lavender, lilac, white and burgundy—they’re permitted after the first year. It’s been more than a year for you, hasn’t it?”
“Why, yes, but—”
“I nearly ruined that dress yesterday, spilling milk all down the skirts. And that shade of lilac would be so pretty on you. I might sound dreadfully vain, but that gown always makes me look sickly. Sallow. It’s the red in my hair, you see.”
“Your hair is a beautiful shade of chestnut.”
Tim slipped away before he got drawn further into the conversation. Velma warned him Sydney had a plan. He hoped it was simply to give Mrs. Orion the dress and not to corner him into paying the widow any compliments. At the earliest opportunity, he’d drag Sydney off and make sure she knew not to try matchmaking.
“Boss.” Gulp’s indignant tone sent Tim in his direction. As he drew closer, Gulp motioned toward the barnyard. School had still been in session the day the women came to sew the dress for Sydney. Free for the summer, children now filled Forsaken’s yard. “Boss, you’ve gotta do something!”
Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 27