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Authors: Cathy Marie Hake
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carry out your part of the bargain.”
Bert wagged his head from side to side. “I was just following orders. Did what I had to, to get the job done. My part’s finished.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t put up with anyone questioning his orders.
“Before you get too het up”—Bert held up both hands as if to ward him off—“you might think on how that Hathwell kid was the one who wanted the cayenne. Maybe he ought to track down what Velma wants.”
The plan had merit. Tim mulled it over.
“You gotta admit, it’s probably all that scrawny little brat’s able to do.”
Scrawny? Yes. Little? Uh-huh. Brat? You bet . Tim resisted the temptation and glowered at Bert. “Chasing after feed sacks isn’t part of the plan. We’re going to whip that kid into shape.”
“Pancake said you were set on that.” Bert kicked a bale of hay. “No one’s gonna blame you if you change your mind.”
“What other people think doesn’t matter to me. My aim’s to do the right thing.”
“Awww, Boss.” Bert looked pained. “Some things can’t be fixed.”
“We won’t know that until we give it a fair try.” Tim thought for a moment. “I’ll let Velma take tomorrow morning off to go visit Etta Sanders and the baby. She can drop in on the Richardsons and Widow O’Toole. That will give her a chance to trade and get the feed sacks. Tell Pancake the kid and I will join you men for lunch.”
Smiling like a man who escaped the noose, Bert shuffled off.
The ranch never lacked chores that needed to be done. Tim looked about and mentally catalogued and prioritized what ought to be addressed. As Forsaken paid better than most spreads, the hands weren’t blowing-in-the-wind tumbleweeds. Having experienced men who stayed long-term rated as important. At the moment, Tim realized just how much he depended on reliable, seasoned hands. Any man could do any job.
And then there was Fancy Pants Hathwell.
What could the kid do? Getting him to round up cattle and drive them to the next pasture would be a disaster. He’d likely start a stampede. Stretching barbed wire took a steady hand and quick reflexes. If the wire snapped and snarled, a man could get cut to ribbons. The kid probably couldn’t figure out which end of a branding iron went where. No matter what task came to mind, Tim immediately eliminated it as a possibility for the kid. Frustrated, he strode back toward the house.
Lord, I’d take it kindly if you’d meet me halfway here. There’s got to be something for Hathwell to do that won’t run into danger. Can’t be something brainy. Any dolt can see the kid’s got enough schooling to last two men. He’s got to develop his brawn. What, Father? What should I have him do?
Tim leaned against a split-rail fence and stared as the moon started to rise. A streak of silvery-yellow light sliced the yard. Suddenly, Tim grinned. He knew exactly what job to give the kid.
As soon as Velma banged on the bedchamber door the next morning, Sydney vaulted from the mattress. She’d gone so far as to set out the clothing she planned to wear. Last night she’d begun to braid her hair out of habit. The very lack of length kept her from making that terrible mistake. If Tim Creighton ever saw her hair in a plait, she’d be . . . what was that saying she’d heard on the train? Fish bait. She’d be fish bait. Still, her hair had tangles the likes of which she’d never dealt with before. Her maid had always dressed her hair, so Sydney silently breathed a prayer of thanks that she’d chopped off at least part of the length.
Since she’d filled her pitcher the night before, Sydney quickly splashed herself clean, yanked the binding around her chest with vicious intent, and knotted it securely in place. She carefully tucked in the edges of the binding so she wouldn’t have to worry they might flap around. The shirt was so big, she didn’t need to unbutton more than the top fastener to slip it over her head. She made a
Bert wagged his head from side to side. “I was just following orders. Did what I had to, to get the job done. My part’s finished.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t put up with anyone questioning his orders.
“Before you get too het up”—Bert held up both hands as if to ward him off—“you might think on how that Hathwell kid was the one who wanted the cayenne. Maybe he ought to track down what Velma wants.”
The plan had merit. Tim mulled it over.
“You gotta admit, it’s probably all that scrawny little brat’s able to do.”
Scrawny? Yes. Little? Uh-huh. Brat? You bet . Tim resisted the temptation and glowered at Bert. “Chasing after feed sacks isn’t part of the plan. We’re going to whip that kid into shape.”
“Pancake said you were set on that.” Bert kicked a bale of hay. “No one’s gonna blame you if you change your mind.”
“What other people think doesn’t matter to me. My aim’s to do the right thing.”
“Awww, Boss.” Bert looked pained. “Some things can’t be fixed.”
“We won’t know that until we give it a fair try.” Tim thought for a moment. “I’ll let Velma take tomorrow morning off to go visit Etta Sanders and the baby. She can drop in on the Richardsons and Widow O’Toole. That will give her a chance to trade and get the feed sacks. Tell Pancake the kid and I will join you men for lunch.”
Smiling like a man who escaped the noose, Bert shuffled off.
The ranch never lacked chores that needed to be done. Tim looked about and mentally catalogued and prioritized what ought to be addressed. As Forsaken paid better than most spreads, the hands weren’t blowing-in-the-wind tumbleweeds. Having experienced men who stayed long-term rated as important. At the moment, Tim realized just how much he depended on reliable, seasoned hands. Any man could do any job.
And then there was Fancy Pants Hathwell.
What could the kid do? Getting him to round up cattle and drive them to the next pasture would be a disaster. He’d likely start a stampede. Stretching barbed wire took a steady hand and quick reflexes. If the wire snapped and snarled, a man could get cut to ribbons. The kid probably couldn’t figure out which end of a branding iron went where. No matter what task came to mind, Tim immediately eliminated it as a possibility for the kid. Frustrated, he strode back toward the house.
Lord, I’d take it kindly if you’d meet me halfway here. There’s got to be something for Hathwell to do that won’t run into danger. Can’t be something brainy. Any dolt can see the kid’s got enough schooling to last two men. He’s got to develop his brawn. What, Father? What should I have him do?
Tim leaned against a split-rail fence and stared as the moon started to rise. A streak of silvery-yellow light sliced the yard. Suddenly, Tim grinned. He knew exactly what job to give the kid.
As soon as Velma banged on the bedchamber door the next morning, Sydney vaulted from the mattress. She’d gone so far as to set out the clothing she planned to wear. Last night she’d begun to braid her hair out of habit. The very lack of length kept her from making that terrible mistake. If Tim Creighton ever saw her hair in a plait, she’d be . . . what was that saying she’d heard on the train? Fish bait. She’d be fish bait. Still, her hair had tangles the likes of which she’d never dealt with before. Her maid had always dressed her hair, so Sydney silently breathed a prayer of thanks that she’d chopped off at least part of the length.
Since she’d filled her pitcher the night before, Sydney quickly splashed herself clean, yanked the binding around her chest with vicious intent, and knotted it securely in place. She carefully tucked in the edges of the binding so she wouldn’t have to worry they might flap around. The shirt was so big, she didn’t need to unbutton more than the top fastener to slip it over her head. She made a
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