Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) by Cathy Marie Hake Read Free Book Online Page A

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 Hathwell 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.”
    “Very well.”
    Tim scanned the kid and shook his head. “Whatever passed for men’s duds in London won’t cut it here. Baggy shirts and pants will get caught or chafe. Next time you go to town, get a few pair of britches and shirts that are boys’ size.”
    Sydney’s jaw hardened. “Mr. Creighton, I happen to feel more comfortable in loose-fitting attire.” Then the kid added in a quieter grumble, “Besides, these are boys’.”
    Tim nodded curtly and said nothing more. It doubtlessly galled Hathwell to have to buy boys’ clothing at his age. Hopefully, he’d soon have enough muscles and height to take up the slack in what he now wore.
    There were men who never did get bigger than this. Wizened old Mr. Farber at the land survey office was a prime example. Then, too, that horse trainer over at the Franklin ranch wasn’t bigger than this. Tim knew some of it was a family trait, but he also suspected people were like crops. The ones that were tended and fed right grew best. Proper activity, training, and plenty of food might boost the kid into a sprouting season.
    “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t understand what you just said.”
    From Sydney’s comment and quizzical look, Tim realized he must have mumbled something under his breath. He shifted his weight. “Good food and hard work are what you need.”
    “Velma’s cuisine is quite tasty.”
    “Which leaves hard work.” Tim strode to the stable. “Bert!”
    “In here!”
    Sydney trotted alongside Tim like a spaniel pup. “My, look