Linda Castle (10 page)

Temple was already striding toward the bundle while he snapped open his pocket knife. He crouched and cut the string with a plop of sound. He yanked the first paper out and scanned the front page while he folded and slid the knife back into his front pocket. Within minutes his expression darkened, but he remained where he was, crouched beside the stack, while he picked up paper after paper and scanned the front pages.

“What is it? What do they say?” Constance stepped closer and bent near in order to read over Temple’s shoulder.

The clean fresh smell of him washed over her. Her pulse quickened and her belly knotted in response. She was relieved when Mr. Hughes turned and walked back toward the wagon leaving her alone with Temple. It was disconcerting enough that she felt the way she did, without worrying that Mr. Hughes might detect her discomfort.

“Tell me what they say.” Constance struggled to slow the thrumming of her heart. “Is it bad news? Has something dreadful happened?”

“I suppose that depends on your point of view. The general consensus seems to be that I am about to be
bested by a woman. There is widespread speculation that a certain Miss Constance Honoria Cadwallender will put Temple Parish in his place.”

He tilted his head and slanted a look up at her. Their faces were only inches apart. Once again Constance felt the strange tug at her heart.

“It is also reported that Mr. Montague has increased the endowment to include a personal reward to the winning digger.”

“Oh.” Constance didn’t know what else to say. She uttered a silent prayer of thanks when Mr. Hughes reappeared and saved her from having to say anything.

Temple stared at Connie while a myriad of emotions rippled through him. He was furious to see her being called the victor in every headline. But a part of him, the part that felt strangely like his long-lost-missing conscience, reminded him that he had intended to do the very same thing. If Hughes had shown up as scheduled, and Temple had sent word by way of the telegraph, then it would have been his name splashed in ink prematurely declaring him the winner.

A new internal struggle began inside him. He wanted to be furious with Connie, but how could he be when none of the news had come from her? And he had been more than ready to use the same tool for his own personal gain.

A wave of frustrated anger swelled inside him, but his anger was directed at himself. He couldn’t help but wonder when he’d become so damned
fair.

The crunch of Peter’s boots on the rocks drew Temple’s attention. The old coot had an oilskin-covered object in his hands and a foxy smirk on his face.

“I do have something for you from your father, miss.”

Temple’s belly tightened. If things continued as they had begun, he was sure he was going to be less than happy about the new “present” from C.H.

‘’Whatever it is, it is bound to be better than these damned yellow rags.” Temple tossed the paper he’d been reading back into the pile while Peter unloaded the three-foot-tall cloaked dome.

“What is this thing, Hughes?” Temple asked, leaning down to get a closer look.

“According to the card tied to the cage, this is Miss Cadwallender’s pet, Livingstone.” Peter pulled the oilcloth off the cage.

“Awrk,” the bird squawked.

Temple jerked back in surprise. The bird flapped his shiny black wings and squawked when the afternoon sunshine flooded the cage. His bright yellow wattles seemed to absorb the sun and reflect it back. He stretched his ebony wings and made a few more unintelligible sounds.

After his initial shock Temple’s curiosity drew him back toward the cage. He bent at the waist and peered at the fowl. “What in Sam Hill?”

“How wonderful.” Connie stepped closer to the cage and bent over as well. “It’s Livingstone.”

Her face was no more than two inches from Temple’s—and she had taken off that damnable hat. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore her creamy skin and twinkling eyes.

“Livingstone, how are you?” She extended one finger through the sturdy wire.

“Do you expect him to answer?” Temple wasn’t sure what bothered him most—the bird, or noticing the pleasing shape of Connie’s lips when she spoke to the creature. He frowned and forced himself to look
only at the beady black eyes that studied him from inside the cage.

“Yes, Temple. He does talk. Not well, but he can manage a few words.” Connie looked up at Temple and smiled. “Livingstone the mynah—meet Temple Parish—the—uh—digger.”

‘Temple is a pirate!” Livingstone said loudly and quite clearly.

Temple snapped upright as if he had been hit in his very tightly clenched jaw.

“What did that damned bird say?” Temple’s voice was taut.

“Why, I believe he called you a pirate.” Constance’s brows were arched. “How extraordinary. I wonder where he learned that?”

“Where indeed.” Temple narrowed his eyes at the bird, then he glanced at Connie in silent speculation.

Peter Hughes erupted into a throaty gale of laughter. He whacked his knee with, an open palm and hopped on one foot. Tears of mirth welled in his eyes.

“Surely you don’t think I taught him to say that?” Connie glanced at him with a look of indignant denial on her face.

Temple wanted to deliver a cutting response, but the sunlight caught her eyes and filled the soft brown depths with a dozen subtle shades of dusky gold. He crossed his arms at his chest and forced himself to look only at Livingstone.

“All aboard, all aboard,” the bird chattered on. “Temple is a pirate. Pirate.”

A
s Temple watched the bird flap its wings and insult him, he felt his brows knitting more tightly together.

“He’s a real mimic, isn’t he? I wonder where he heard all those colorful descriptions?”

“He was learning one or two new words when I left New York.” She unlatched the cage door and stuck her hand inside.

“Careful, the brute will pierce you with that beak.” Temple extended his arm as if he might physically restrain her but she just avoided his touch and continued.

“Nonsense. He is perfectly tame. At home he rides upon my shoulder.”

Just as she predicted the bird hopped onto her hand and walked up her arm. He nuzzled his smooth sharp beak against her cheek in an awkward caress.

Connie giggled at the bird’s affectionate touch while Temple’s insides flip-flopped. The sound of her laughter brought a frisson of chills down his arms. He didn’t want to respond to her.

Livingstone pulled a lock of her hair from the tight coil on top of her head. He played with the tendril
until he became bored and let it fall from his beak. The loose strand caught the sunlight and made Temple too aware of the delicate structure of her jawline.

“You better keep him in a cage or some hawk will make short work of him.” Temple tried to deny what he was feeling while he made one last attempt to resurrect his dying anger.

“He will be fine, Temple, I’ll watch him. But I do thank you for worrying about his. safety.” She stroked the top of the bird’s head with one finger while she slanted a grateful glance at him. Temple started to tell her he couldn’t care less about the bird’s welfare, but he was mesmerized by the picture of her soft finger stroking on the ebony feathers and gently chucking the butter-colored wattles.

He would love to feel her touch on his own skin—would like to know the pleasure of her caress. Temple started at his thoughts.

He did not desire Connie.

He couldn’t.

He forced himself to focus on the fact she was his competition, but each time he looked at her, in that ridiculous oversize dress with the bird on her shoulder, a strange burst of heat twined through him.

“I’m going back to work,” Temple choked out.

“Wait—I have another bit o’ news for you.” Peter was still grinning like a fox.

“Oh, and what would that be, Mr. Hughes?” Temple was ready to wring the old bandit’s neck.

“You are going to have company today.”

Temple’s brows furrowed together. “Company? Today? Who?”

“The owner of the Flying B is coming over to see you.” Peter’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

In view of his. short association with Hughes, Temple found himself wondering how much Peter was leaving unsaid.

“Enough for now, Livingstone.” Constance urged the bird back onto her hand. Sunlight glinted on his blue-black feathers when he returned to his cage. She glanced at Temple. “Just in case your prediction of hawks and eagles should come true.”

Peter tactfully looked up at the sky but Temple knew he was about to bust out laughing again. “As I was say in’, you’ll probably get company in about an hour or so.”

Constance brushed at the soil clinging to her dress and a new thought popped into her head. The owner of this land was coming to see them. Peter’s announcement could work to her advantage. She could take a bath and change without Temple thinking she had taken leave of her senses. He would never realize he was the reason she had suddenly become aware of her own sad wardrobe and bedraggled appearance.

“How long did you say it would be before he arrives?” Constance asked while she latched Livingstone’s cage.

“’Bout an hour, I’d guess. But it’s not a he, it’s a she. Bessie Morgan is the richest widow in Montana.”

Temple’s head snapped up. He could swear he heard a tone of admiration in Peter’s voice.

“In that case, I have time to make myself more presentable before she arrives.”

Temple stared at her in horror. “What for?” he blurted out. “What’s wrong with the way you look?” A little voice in his head laughed at the absurdity of his statement. Her costume was utterly hideous, and anybody with any sense at all could see it. “I think
you look just fine,” Temple lied desperately. If Connie peeled away the layers of dirty cloth that now covered her, then he would be looking at the lovely form that had magically appeared at the lake.

He swallowed hard while fear gripped him. God, could he stand it? Could he ignore that siren?

“Temple, I certainly cannot allow the local people to think that Dandridge is being represented by someone who is..”. Constance stopped short. She could not think of a proper word to describe what she was feeling.

Dowdy?
Absolutely.

Plain?
Undoubtedly, for each time she looked at Temple she felt plainer than rice pudding.

Unattractive?
A heaviness entered her heart. Temple could not possibly think of her in any other terms, and that made her unbearably sad.

Constance could have used any of those words to describe how she felt, but that would have allowed Temple a deep glimpse into a heart she was only just discovering for herself.

She knew he still thought of her as a little girl in braids and pinafore. For the life of her she could not fathom why she should suddenly be experiencing so many new and inexplicable feelings, and all of them involving Temple Parish.

“We’re diggers, Connie. Why should you care about how you look?” Temple felt extremely proud of his argument. By acknowledging her as a digger, he was sure he could manipulate her.

“You took a bath. You washed your hair and put on clean clothes,” she pointed out. “I don’t know of any reason I shouldn’t do the same.” She smiled at
him and he felt a little of his resolve dwindle away. “But it is nice to hear you call me a digger, Temple.”

Temple clamped his lips together in a taut line. His eyes slid over her from head to toe. He was losing the battle—and he knew it.

“I guess you have a point,” he said softly while his gaze skimmed over her.

Constance felt every inch of her flesh respond to his intense scrutiny. She feared she was going to blush so she turned hurriedly away, seeking shelter from his eyes. When she was inside, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her breathing had become rapid under that steady mahogany gaze.

“Remarkable,” she muttered while she went to her trunk and opened the lid.

Peter cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner causing Temple to turn and glare at him. “I am happy I came by. This looks like it might shape up to be a real celebration.”

Temple saw the taunting sparkle in the older man’s blue eyes. He wished Peter Hughes were twenty years younger because he had the overwhelming urge to throttle him.

Constance used the long-toothed comb to work the tangles from her freshly washed hair. She had scrubbed and soaked until her fingers were puckered from the tepid water of the lake. Each time she thought of putting on her serge skirt and the softly gathered lawn shirt, a knot formed in her belly. Every season she purchased clothing in the latest styles, more out of a sense that she should do as other young women did, than any real desire to wear them, but now she wanted to look…
pretty.

The notion somewhat surprised her.

She had never dressed with the intention of drawing a man’s notice. Her life had been spent around aging professors and strangers, none of whom had ever shown the slightest interest in getting to know her, or to speak to her beyond the most Spartan greeting. She pulled the comb through the last damp strand of her hair.

“Except for Temple.”

From the time he came into her father’s household he had given her notice. He had taken the time to talk to her—to ask her questions—to tease her until she laughed shyly at his antics—or to tug playfully on her braids.

“And he still thinks of me as that same little girl.” She thought once again of the small wooden statue. That was what Temple saw when he looked at her. “He will never take me seriously as a competitor if he continues to believe I am still a child.”

Constance set the comb aside and looked at the new frock draped over the large boulder. It was not what she was accustomed to wearing. But while she stared at the pretty blue-and-white-striped fabric a new thought came into her mind. Perhaps that was exactly what this occasion called for; to be something different, to be
somebody
different.

She had persuaded her father to send her on this dig in small measure to prove herself. This change in her appearance could be the first step in that quest.

The thud of galloping horses’ hooves could be felt through the earth long before the riders could be seen.

Temple let the brim of his hat shield his eyes while he scanned the horizon. Two riders on horseback
finally appeared, tiny silhouettes between the duskygray earth and the slash of cloudless sky.

“I thought perhaps it was the buggy bringing Mrs. Morgan. But apparently not.” Temple had hung around Connie’s camp, partly to keep an eye on Hughes and partly because his curiosity about the predicted company would not allow him leave.

He glanced at Peter and saw the telltale smile tickling the corners of his mouth. He counted to ten, while he waited for Peter to dissolve into his annoying habit of sidesplitting laughter, but the old man only cleared his throat in his exaggerated manner and turned away.

“All right, Hughes, what is the secret—this time?” Temple had been the brunt of Peter’s jokes since his arrival. ‘Tell me what’s going on,” Temple demanded.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Peter schooled his features and looked innocent while he answered evasively.

“Oh, yes, you do. I saw that twinkle in your eye. It usually means I am about to look like the north end of a southbound jackass. Now, what is the secret about Mrs. Morgan that you are busting to tell me?”

“There is no secret—really.” Peter grinned. “You just sort of jumped to the conclusion that Bessie Morgan is the kind of woman who would be coming to visit in a buggy. Strictly speaking, that ain’t exactly the case.” Peter chuckled. “Not exactly that is.”

Temple shifted his gaze back to the pair of riders. They were a little closer now and more details were becoming visible. One rider was small, and while Temple would not have described the person as frail, there was a certain hint of femininity about the way the rider sat in the saddle.

“Do you mean to tell me one of those riders is Mrs. Morgan?” Temple rubbed his palm down his face in annoyance. He was having enough trouble managing the unconventional Miss Constance Cadwallender. He certainly didn’t want to have to deal with another eccentric female. Temple started to tell Peter Hughes that very thing, but when he looked up he found the old man staring beyond him in slack-jawed silence. His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were wide. Temple followed his line of vision and found himself stunned to motionlessness as well.

The bright sunlight made it impossible to identify the exact shade of the ribbon that held the glistening fall of heavy hair, but Temple thought it might have been pale blue. A modern creation of cream flowed softly from a seductively full bosom. Leg-of-mutton sleeves emphasized well-formed shoulders and drew his gaze to the tiny waist nipped in by a diamondshaped cloth cummerbund. The navy skirt with a narrow white stripe running through it skimmed over the swell of her hips and belled slightly before it halted slightly above shiny lace-up shoes that showed off a pair of extremely well-turned ankles.

Temple swallowed hard and allowed himself to blink—but only once. A hot flush filled his face. He had seen calves and ankles artfully exposed by women on several continents when they had stepped from carriages, or climbed stairs—but never in his life had a pair of ankles affected him as Connie’s were doing right now.

“My God!” Temple gulped down his surprise. The last hope of ever envisioning Constance as a little girl crumbled beneath his feet and something like the first dawn blazed across the horizon of his brain.

She was beautiful.

Temple’s face was like an open page. For a moment Peter actually felt a measure of pity for him. The way Temple stared at Miss Cadwallender brought back memories of what it had been like to be young—to be ruled by raw emotion and almost no sense. Hunger, need and unabashed devotion filled Temple’s eyes. Peter wondered if the damned young fool even knew that he was smitten with Miss Cadwallender.

He might have just come out and asked, but the opportunity was lost when Bessie and Holt Morgan rode up at the same moment Miss Cadwallender sashayed back into her camp. Peter took one look at the four people staring at one another in narrow-eyed speculation. He decided that Montana was about to get a whole lot more exciting than it had ever been.