Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (10 page)

Creighton took Hathwell straight out to the garden plot after breakfast. He tried to ignore the kid’s groan of disgust at the state of the ground. “We didn’t want grass here. It’ll choke out whatever Velma plants. You’re looking at the best way to get rid of unwanted grass.”

They stared at the garden plot, and Tim gave Syd a sideways glance. The look on the kid’s face was thoroughly entertaining. A full two dozen cows stood within a roped enclosure. Indeed, they’d eaten off all of the grass. As if on cue, one nearest them answered nature’s call. Tim chuckled. “Besides, now you won’t have to haul over any fertilizer.”

The kid gave him a dubious look. “I suppose I ought to be grateful for that labor-saving trick?”

“You’re catching on.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re a plowboy today. I borrowed the Richardsons’ plow. You can use it and return it tomorrow.”

“Where do they live?”

“Seven miles or so thataway.” He flipped his thumb to the right. “Gotta warn you, son, the man has daughters. Six of ’em. Not a single one of ’em even promised.”

“You make that sound terrible!”

“It’s worse than terrible. It’s downright dangerous.” Fancy Pants deserved fair warning. “Can’t go over there without that whole gaggle of geese squawkin’ and fluttering.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having daughters! The world wouldn’t continue on without the female of the species.”

“There’s females, and then there are the Richardson girls,” Tim intoned in a doomsday voice.

“Aren’t they nice girls?”

“Boy, that’s just the heart of it. They are nice. They’re the nest-buildin’, moon-eyed, ring-wantin’ kind of gals who trap a man into marriage. Every time I go over there, I feel like a bone that every single pup in the whole starving litter wants just for herself.”

Sydney laughed.

Slanting the kid a look, Tim brightened up a bit. “Hey! Did you want to do some courting?”

“Me? With a girl?” The kid’s eyes bugged out. “Oh, my goodness, no!”

“Plenty of kids your age do more than their share of sparkin’.” Memories made him smile. “By the time I was your age, I’d passed time with lots of pretty young things. Listen, son: The farmer has six daughters. All you have to do is check them out and find the one you like the best. It’s simple enough.”

“And what about you?”

Pain slashed through Tim. “I’m not about to get my neck in the noose. The last thing I’ll ever do is to get married again.”

“A—” Hathwell shut his mouth.

Tim had to give the kid some credit. He’d caught on and clammed up. Tim immediately redirected the conversation. “As I said, the Richardsons have six daughters.”

“Six.”

He nodded his head. “The youngest two are still playing with dolls. The older four are around your age—give or take a few years.”

“The tone of your voice leads me to believe there’s something you’re not telling me.” Hathwell met his gaze steadily.

So the kid’s got some instinct. Good. If I expect him to act like a man,
I have to treat him like a man
. Tim cleared his throat. “Those girls are so man-hungry, their papa ought to send out warnings before he takes them to town. I respect a good woman, and I won’t say a contrary thing about any gal who conducts herself with restraint even if it appears to be bordering on the teasing; but those Richardson girls . . .” He shook his head.

“I thought you said they were nice girls!”

“Oh, no doubt every last one of them is pure as the day she was born, but they all . . .” He winced. “I wouldn’t be caught dead keeping company with any of them. Fact is, neither would most of the other men.”

“Put that way, I’m more than reticent to consider socializing with them. You’ll have to grant me the grace to bow out on that obligation.”

Scratching his jaw, Tim admitted to himself that it was hypocritical to prod the kid into doing something when he wasn’t willing to do it himself. “All right. I understand your stance.”

As they spoke, Juan and Gulp quickly herded away the cattle. Boaz hitched the plow to a sturdy mare, and everyone gathered around for a few minutes to watch Tim give Sydney a lesson in plowing.

“Keep the plow tip in the ground. Don’t jam it straight down. Keep it at an angle. The soil turns right over. Keep the furrows straight. Velma won’t want a garden that looks like a drunkard plowed it.”

Sydney muttered, “It would serve her right.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Keep the reins over your shoulder and talk to the horse. Guide the plow, and there you go.” Tim walked the length of a furrow.

Once he turned over the reins, Syd got into position and tried to copy him. Fancy Pants’s nose wrinkled at the smell of fresh cow plops. Even worse, he intentionally stepped around them. After three feet, he’d already changed direction twice.

“Looks like a snake done plowed that row, boy,” Boaz commented.

Tim coughed to cover his own laugh at the observation. He’d thought the same thing. “The kid’s got to learn sometime.”

“Yeah. Or somehow.” Juan studied the winding furrow. “From the looks of it, it’ll take a miracle.”

Tim allowed the men their moment of humor, but they’d had enough. “You all have work to do. Get going.”

The kid clicked his tongue and tried to slap the reins. He lost hold of the handles. When he bent over to pick up the plow, he jerked back his hand and made a sound.

“Keep going, Hathwell. You have all day.” Tim wanted to bark an order to stop being persnickety. Reason dictated he refrain. Every few yards, the cows left evidence of having been penned in there. Sooner or later, the kid would realize he’d have to wash his hands and scrape off his boots at the end of the job. Once he did, the rows would be straight. He’d just better go back and redo the crooked ones.

As he saddled up a snappy pinto, Tim considered what to have Fancy Pants do next. Some things, like tilling the ground, he’d have to learn by doing. Other things, he’d have to be shown. Teaching took time—time Tim didn’t have. Calving season was almost over. Two- and four-legged predators tended to pop up about now. He’d have to rotate the herd to another pasture farther away—and that necessitated scheduling a couple of cowboys to bedroll under the stars. Unwilling to order men to do something he wouldn’t do himself, Tim made it a point to be among the first to do the duty.

“Lord, I don’t know why you dumped this kid on me. I don’t have the time or the patience for it. I’d take it kindly if you’d get Fuller back here so we could straighten out matters.”

Fearing it would take her the better part of the day to finish a single row, Sydney clucked under her breath. The mare took that as an order to move forward. Sydney practically got pulled right over the plow. By the time they got to the end of that row, she knew she was in deep trouble. She didn’t have the strength the job required. She also didn’t have the arm span. The winged arms of the plow splayed so far apart, her hands barely reached them.

She stood in the middle of a huge, stinky, mushy cow patty and surveyed the zigzagging furrow she’d dug in the ground. Swallowing hard, she then looked at the plow. “Stupid men. Stupid tool. Stupid garden!”

A little sparrow landed on the ground and chirped at her. He happily hopped a bit, plucked up one of the worms she’d managed to reveal, and gobbled it up. He then cheeped a cheery little song.

“Oh, all right. I’ll just have to keep at it. I’ve got to do something, though. . . .”

“What in thunder are you doin’ here?” Bert asked as she entered the stable.

“Getting rope.”

“Why?”

“Because I have need of it.” Sydney had no idea ordinary rope weighed so much. She got the wheelbarrow, put two coils of rope in it, and went back to the garden plot. The first length she lay on the dirt to mark off a line. The second she used to make several circles from one plow handle to the other, much like coiling yarn around a partner’s hands. She then hung a bucket from it and put in four fist-sized stones. Taking up the reins once again, she slid them over her shoulder and ignored the plow handles entirely. She crossed her arms and leaned her weight on the rope spanning them.

By the fourth row, she’d learned to lean her weight to counterbalance enough to keep the rows passably straight. She’d needed to add two more stones to the bucket to create enough drag for the plow to bite into the soil. Each row was an accomplishment. Each row was a victory. Each row took more out of her.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you for dinner?”

“What? Oh! Velma!”

“Put down that plow and come on in and eat. You’re getting a good job done, but I don’t want you starving yourself.”

Sydney beamed at that praise and hobbled off to lunch. Tim didn’t arrive. Velma mentioned something about him doing work in a far pasture. The absence of tension at the table felt strange. Nice, but strange. Sydney ate more than she’d ever dared before.

“Honey, you’re eating like a field hand.” Velma ladled more stew into her bowl. “Then again, Tim’s making you into one, ain’t he?”

“It certainly appears so.”

“Bet those uppity folks back in England would have a fit over this sight.”

“Indeed.” Sydney smiled wearily and finished every mouthful before dragging herself upright. “Thank you, Velma.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll take a couple of pitchers of water upstairs so you can clean up pretty good tonight. We’ve got to work out something about baths. Mostly I just stick a tub in the kitchen and we’ve all taken turns, but that’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

“Fuller and Tim think nothing about wandering through on each other.”

“Oh, merciful saints!”

“Yeah, well, men don’t possess a scrap of modesty among the whole herd of them. Let me think on it. I’ll come up with something. You get out there and get busy. Tim won’t take kindly to a half-done job at sunset.”

It took every scrap of gumption Sydney could summon to go finish the job. She completed the final row by the last streaks of sunlight, then fought the urge to curl up right there in the dirt and sob. Or sleep. Most likely, sob herself to sleep. She’d never been so tired or sore. Or had such a sense of accomplishment.

“Take the plow into the barn. A man honors his tools with good care, and they take care of him right back,” Tim quoted from his horse.

“For a man who doesn’t much appreciate poetry, you sure do like to spout wisdoms and platitudes.”

“Son, I never said I didn’t cotton to poetry. It’s just that I prioritize. Being able to keep food on the table ranks higher than talking in rhyming words.”

“So you do like poetry?” As soon as she asked the question, Sydney grimaced.
That wasn’t a question a man would have asked
.

“Haven’t had much of an opportunity to read gobs of it. What little I’ve read spans from the nauseatingly flowery to the awe-inspiring religious.”

Relieved he hadn’t cornered her on that slip, she took advantage of his response and segued to a different topic. “So are you one of those churchgoing Christians?”

“I don’t pray at mealtimes for show.”

Sydney backpedaled. “I meant no offense.”

“Look around you, son.” He waved his arm in a broad, sweeping gesture. “How could any man see all of this nature and not think God made it?”

“I’ve read Darwin’s
Origin of Species
.” Sydney shrugged. “When you prayed, I presumed you didn’t accept his theory of evolution. But from what the hands say, you work on Sundays. I didn’t know exactly where you stand.”

“We attend worship on the Lord’s Day. As for work—it’s limited to the essentials on that day. I pledged my heart to God, and I do my best to honor His ways. What about you?”

“We always attended church back home. After all, it’s a good example.” The minute the words left her mouth, Sydney knew she’d said something wrong. She just didn’t know what. “Of course, we attended all of the special functions, too—holidays, weddings, baptisms, and the like.”

His eyes narrowed. “I see.”

“Mr. Creighton, you aren’t an easy man to figure out.”

“Kid, believe me, I feel that way about you, too. Now get things put up. Velma kicks up a fuss if you don’t get to the supper table on time.”

As she turned away with the plow, Juan appeared. “Boss, that kid’s a real boot in the seat of the pants. Didja see what he did to that plow?”

“He’s so skinny and short, he’d have never gotten the job done if he hadn’t rigged that up.”

Sydney didn’t tarry. Hearing Big Tim complain about her stature instead of her accomplishment made her despair of ever pleasing him.

Moments later, Velma met Sydney at the door and pointed to the pump. “You’re not stepping foot in here till you sluice some of that dirt off. Roll up the sleeves and get your hands and face. I put a cake of soap there, too. Duck your head and shampoo that greasy mess. Here’s a towel.”

Mortified, Sydney accepted the towel. No one had ever found her hygiene lacking. Indeed, it certainly was now. She smelled awful. She felt sticky, and her hair felt itchy.
What I
wouldn’t give for a nice, long bath,
she sighed to herself. Resolving not to complain, she headed for the water pump.