Free Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) by Cathy Marie Hake

dish.”
    “How . . . proper.”
    She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin and echoed with a slightly exaggerated accent she dropped in register so it sounded more masculine, “Veddy.”
    Velma burst into raucous laughter and slapped her thigh. “The pair of you deserve each other in the morning!”
    “Three. You’re in here, too,” Tim reminded her.
    “So I am.” She shot them an unashamed smile. “Lightning done set down in this house. There’s going to be heat and fire. You’re going to shake up the world, and I’m gonna sit back and watch the show!”
    “You can’t sit back and do anything. According to Mr. Creighton, no one sits around Forsaken. He’ll give you perdition for being unproductive.”
    Tim glowered at her for her audacity.
    Sydney merely grinned back.
    Velma grinned at Tim. “Cheeky little rascal, ain’t he?”
    “Not for long.”
    Sydney should have taken that as a warning. Tim ordered her to muck the stable again. The second she finished, he hauled her over to a barren patch of ground. “Velma wants a garden. Collect the rocks and lay them alongside the line I’ve scratched in the dirt.”
    The patch of land was at least thirty yards long and half again as wide. Everything from thumb-sized pebbles to huge pillow-sized stones dotted the area. Sydney gawked at the collection of rocks in disbelief. “I’m supposed to budge those huge boulders?”
    “Those aren’t boulders. I already moved them over there.” He waved his arm negligently toward a collection of rocks that might as well have been the foundations for a fortress. “I left you the smaller ones. Get busy. I want you to till and hoe it tomorrow so Velma can plant it the next day.” Tim gave her a walloping smack between the shoulder blades to set her into motion and strode off.
    Her back ached and her hands were almost raw. Those lovely, long fingernails she’d clipped short now were chipped clear back to the quick. The strain of picking up the stones left her arms quivering.
    A rock landed beside her. She reared back and looked around.
    “Chow time,” Tim said.
    Sydney stared down at the stone. Couldn’t he have just called me or used a pebble? That thing’s huge! He’s testing me. That’s what he’s doing . She nodded and dusted off her hands. “I’m hungry.”
    The men all lined up, and one by one received a pie tin full of food. Pancake thrust a tin at Sydney. “Here ya go, Hathwell.
    Puke on maggots.”
    Revulsion streaked through her.
    Tim gave her shoulder a jostle and chuckled. “Pancake likes to give his food fancy-sounding names.”
    “He’s quite . . . descriptive.” Sydney blinked at the tin and forced herself to smile. Just about the time she’d decided Tim Creighton had no redeeming qualities, he’d saved her from making a fool of herself.
    “Did the kid just insult me?” Pancake scowled at her and Tim.
    “He agreed. Your stew on rice looks like puke on maggots.” Tim motioned to the cook. “Better give me extra.”
    “That’s more like it. Blood or fire?”
    “Both.” Tim took his tin. “But I’ll add them myself.”
    Tim shook a bottle over his plate. Red goo plopped out. The second bottle was smaller, and the reddish orange watery contents poured out.
    “Stop hoggin’ the Tabasco,” Merle groused. “In fact, give some to the kid. It’ll put hair on his chest.”
    “And singe it.” Tim shoved the bottle at Merle.
    Sydney ate almost half of what she’d been served. Tim ordered in a low tone, “Eat up, kid. You don’t want to insult Pancake.”
    Sydney looked down at the food. She couldn’t eat another bite. A hand slid over, swiped her tin, and replaced it with an empty one. Her eyes widened, and she looked over at Gulp.
    He seemed to be staring off in the distance. A moment later, he ducked his head and shoveled in every last morsel. He didn’t say a word—just pushed away from the table and sauntered off.
    As she rose from the table, Tim murmured, “You owe him one. A