Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (14 page)

Her mouth went dry. The man looked dashingly handsome. How had she managed to suppress her awareness of what a good-looking man he was? Beneath that rugged facade shone an impressive, stunningly masculine individual. He didn’t just look cleaned up—he looked downright debonair. Had he the right set of clothes, he’d make every woman in London’s high society swoon. As it was, he didn’t have on tony clothes, but he was dressed as elegantly as any rustic man of these parts did. He even had on cuff links and a string tie. . . .

“Kid, what possessed you to wear that cravat thing? You look like you’re wearing a silk scarf with ruffles. Honest to Pete, you look like a frilly sissy.” He shook his head. “Maybe men back in England get away trying to look pretty, but out here, a man dresses like a man and leaves the fussy stuff for the gals. The last thing we need is for some drunken fool to mistake you for a pretty girl and start a fight. Ditch it, and we’ll get moving.”

His words thrilled her. He thought she was pretty! He thought men would be attracted to her. Even with her duded up in men’s clothing, he still considered her feminine. Backhanded as it was, it was the first bit of male appreciation she’d had in days.

Tim gave her a dark look. “What’re you standing there for? Take off that stupid cravat.”

“You’re wearing a tie,” she rasped in a husky voice that couldn’t truly be her own.

His big hand went up and fleetingly touched that bit of masculine attire. “Yup. Plenty of the gals have a thing for them.”

“Perhaps the ladies will take a fancy to my cravat.”

Tim gave it a scowl. “Only because they might want to wear it themselves.”

Sydney hastened to her room, stared in the mirror, and untied her cravat. With Tim in the background, she had to take pains to make sure he couldn’t see the edge of her chest binding. In the mirror, she saw him lean against her doorframe. Her fingers fumbled with the top shirt buttons, then with the collar.

“That’s good enough. Time to go.”

“Very well—I mean, fine.” The minute she passed through the door, Tim slapped her on the shoulder and practically sent her sprawling.

Tim thought about the holster he’d gotten for Syd. It’d weigh the kid down and stop that infernal sway to his hips. Then again, he’d seen Syd’s temper. So far, when the kid got mad, he clammed up and stomped off—but men often felt obliged to take a stand when embarrassed in public. Those incidents gave ample room for foolishness.

“Velma already took the buckboard. She’s mighty proud of her potato salad.”

“I’ll be sure to sample it and praise her.”

“Good.” Tim mounted up, then grimaced. The kid couldn’t swing up into Kippy’s saddle.

Fancy Pants casually led the horse to the porch steps, gained his saddle, and acted as if men always mounted in such manner. Unless aged or infirm, no other man in Texas would have stooped to requiring help to saddle up. The kid adjusted his hat and set Kippy at a comfortable trot.

Tim couldn’t believe it, but stuffy English dignity worked in this situation. He nodded to himself. Whatever Syd did today that was off, Tim would cover for him by offhandedly commenting on how Brits had odd ways of going about things.

“Other than eating barbecue and dancing, what does a Founders’ Day celebration entail?”

“The parson will say a prayer. The mayor will get longwinded, and old Mrs. Whitsley will poke him with her cane.”

“Is that a Texas tall tale?”

“Nope. It’s the unvarnished truth. She’ll be sitting up on the platform because her grandfather founded the town. The woman’s a pistol. She’ll pound the platform with her cane and take the mayor to task for making everyone stand out in the sun when they ought to be sitting in the shade, eating.”

“I take it that’s what she did last year?”

“The last five years.” Tim chuckled. “Some things never change.”

Once they reached the outskirts of town, Sydney shot him a surprised look. “All of these people live hereabouts?”

“Sort of. Lots of the little whistle-stop towns surrounding us come for this and the Fourth of July. Not as many people show up for the Fourth, though.”

“Whyever not?”

“Texas sided with the South in the War Between the States. Some folks still harbor hard feelings.”

Beneath his hat’s brim, Syd’s face darkened. “I’d not thought about that. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I’d not want to ruin someone’s day by speaking out of turn.”

“It’s a subject best left alone.” They dismounted, hitched their horses to a shade tree, and walked down the street toward the platform. Tim didn’t want the kid lagging after him like a lost puppy. He had a few things he wanted to get done while in town.

Suddenly Syd halted and hunkered down.

Tim towered over him. “What are—”

“The Richardsons just arrived. My boot’s—”

“Big Tim!” The girls all fluttered toward him.

Tim muffled a groan.

Sydney rose. “How did I know you ladies would all be coming to town? I just knew you would! And the town’s all decorated. Did you help?”

Tim wanted to slink away, but Mrs. Richardson clamped hold of one arm while Linette grabbed the other.

Sydney listened to the girls for a brief moment, then heaved a sigh. “You ladies will have to excuse us.”

“But why?” Katherine threaded her hand through the crook of Sydney’s arm.

“Boots. Mine don’t fit properly. I’ve admired Tim’s . . .”

Tim seized the opportunity. “I promised Fuller I’d see to things. Since we’re in town, it’s smart to get Hathwell the proper equipment.”

“We’ll come along!” Marcella beamed.

“I simply couldn’t bear the indignity of exposing such refined young women to my stockinged feet.” Sydney made a shooing motion. “Off with you all.”

“Good going, kid.” Tim headed toward the saddlery. “C’mon.”

“Isn’t the mercantile—”

Tim shook his head. “Those gals will concoct a reason to go there. I’m taking you to Matteo. When it comes to boots, nobody makes ’em better.”

Matteo was glad to get some business. While he measured the kid’s impossibly small feet, Tim looked around the shop. No use buying what the ranch didn’t need. Then again, no use waiting till something broke before replacing it.

Odd, how Hathwell could be so nauseatingly priggish at one moment, then a stalwart man the next. He’d tried to help Tim evade the Richardsons, and when it didn’t work, he concocted an honest excuse to part company.

Tim turned and watched the kid stand and stomp down to force his foot completely into a boot. He took a few experimental steps, then nodded. “Tim was right. He said nobody makes better boots.”

Tim set a few articles on the table. “Put these on Forsaken’s tab, Matteo.”

The kid reached into his pocket. “How much—”

Tim shook his head. “Forsaken takes care of her men.”

Being a man had some benefits. Sydney was free to roam around without a chaperone. She could eat as much as she wanted without anyone considering her a glutton. Instead of straining to make polite conversation, she could nod or be strong and silent. Well, silent at least.

A ragtag collection of people comprised a band on part of the boardwalk. They played with great zeal and very little talent.

Enterprising children ran a lemonade stand. Sydney bought a cup. It tasted dreadful. She couldn’t resist buying a second one, though.

She’d meet folks at church on Sunday, but most didn’t wait for an introduction. Men stuck out their hands and identified themselves by last name and trade or spread. If their wife happened to be with them, they’d simply introduce her as “the wife” or “the little woman.” Daughters were a different story. Proud papas gave their names and boasted about their daughters’ foremost accomplishment.

And oh, those accomplishments. Lacey could rope a steer faster than most men. Hedda took second place at the county fair with her fig preserves. Theodora inherited her uncle’s knack for water dousing. Crawdads shivered in fear of Angelina. Odd as those boasts seemed, Sydney found them refreshing. Back home, fathers relegated their daughters to the care of a nanny or governess. Most didn’t know their daughters well enough to dote on them.

For all the tony soirees, high-society fetes, and carefully orchestrated picnics she’d been to in England, none of them was half as fun. Once the dancing started, she stood on the edge of the planks and watched as folks whirled and stomped, promenaded and allemanded.

“Give it a go, kid.” Tim slapped him on the back.

“After you.” Sydney grinned at him.

Big Tim found crotchety old Mrs. Whitsley. She tossed aside her cane and joined him.

Sydney watched as Big Tim swept the old woman off her feet. Mrs. Whitsley pinched his cheek and said something. He threw back his head and belted out a laugh. Once the fiddle started, Tim carted the old woman to and fro, wheeled around, and slid her into another man’s arms for one pass around the circle of dancers. He reclaimed her, wove around the opposite direction, and finally finished off the dance by carefully setting Mrs. Whitsley back down and making a courtly bow to her.

At that moment, any last scrap of resentment or anger Sydney had felt toward him evaporated. Big Tim, handsome and strong, hadn’t chosen a pretty or rich young girl. He’d found a woman who needed a little lovingkindness and given her a taste of joy. Tim didn’t stop there. He escorted Velma over to a group and helped form a square. Soon, they followed the lively fiddle music and the directions from the man Tim labeled the “caller.”

Having taken dance lessons and learned all of the proper ballroom moves, Sydney possessed a sense of rhythm and movement. Far more verve and style went into square dancing, yet folks didn’t adhere to strict postural carriage. She couldn’t be sure whether someone stepped amiss or if they were just embellishing the moves.

Tim whirled Velma right by Sydney as their dance ended. He glanced from Velma to Sydney, and Sydney took the hint. She stepped up onto the planks and bowed. “Miss Velma, I’d be honored to partner you for the next dance, if you won’t mind my inexperience.”

“We’ll have us a fine time!” She laced her arm through Sydney’s and hastily introduced “Syd Hathwell” to the other couples. In ballroom dancing, men stepped forward and women moved backward. This dance didn’t work that way. No one minded when she turned the wrong direction.

“You done good, Syd.” Mr. Tomel pounded her on the back when the dance finished.

For the next hour, Sydney alternated between watching everyone and dancing. During one dance, Marcella Richardson was Sydney’s “corner.” That necessitated their dancing together for part of the set. When the piece ended, the man who’d been Marcella’s partner vanished. Marcella sidled closer.

Sydney saw the hope in her eyes.
Do I ask her to dance, just to
make her feel better? Or do I make my excuses so she’ll have the opportunity
to dance with a man? It’s bad enough that I’m deceiving everyone. I can’t
rob these young ladies of the possibility of catching a young suitor
.

“In England, one dance—even a portion of that one dance—is all that is permitted for a young lady with any gentleman. I’ll not insult you by asking you to dance, Miss Richardson. You’re so light on your feet, I’m positive the other men are all anticipating a chance to squire you about the floor.”

Sydney bowed and made her escape. A few minutes later, someone grabbed her sleeve.

“Syd! I always pay up.” Bert nodded. “It’s high time we had that beer.”

“Beer.”

“Yeah. I told you soon as we were in town, I’d get you one. C’mon.”

Gulp scrambled over. “Widder O’Toole just started in on Pancake. We gotta git while the gittin’s good.”

“The two of you go on ahead.” Sydney squared her shoulders. “I’ll be sure to engage the widow in conversation so you can make an escape.”

“Toldja Syd’s a good egg.” Gulp gripped her arm and started striding off.

Bert took her other arm. “Us men stick together.”

A moment later, Sydney found herself standing between the cowboys at the bar in the saloon. A lady ought never enter such a place, yet Sydney couldn’t help enjoying the opportunity. The all-male bastion boasted a handful of tables. A smattering of bored-looking men played cards at those tables. Cigar and cigarette smoke mingled with the acrid smell of spirits.