Linda Castle (17 page)

“That’s great news, now come and eat. You look all done in.” Bessie smiled indulgently. “Mr. Parish, we brought lunch, come join us.”

“I don’t have time to eat,” he called back.

“Nonsense, I insist you come have a bite with me. Besides, I also have a letter for you. One of my men brought it out from Morgan Forks at Peter’s request.” Bessie withdrew a paper from her shirt pocket. She waved it in the air as if to show Temple that it really did exist and was not just some ruse to get him to leave his excavation. “And it wouldn’t be fair for Miss Cadwallender to stop digging if you don’t.”

Temple glanced at the emerging dinosaur skull. Indecision warred within him. The sooner he released the bones from their stone prison, the sooner he could be on a train back to New York. He glanced up at Connie once again. A glob of mud clung to her cheek and the heavy cloth of her dress was soaked and
muddy to the level of her knees. While he was watching, Holt Morgan reached out and wiped a smudge of grime from Connie’s cheek with his fingers.

That was all the incentive Temple needed. With one blistering expletive, he climbed out of the hole.

“I think we came on just the right day.” Bessie held out the letter to Temple. “You had a letter waitin’ in town. Peter thought it might be important.”

He took the paper and glanced at the address then stuffed it inside his shirt.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Bessie asked.

Constance shoved her spectacles up and peered at Temple. She was trying to hide her curiosity, but he knew her too well to be fooled. He stifled a grin and decided to let her remain curious.

Temple nodded at the basket Holt was carrying. “I’ll read it later. What’s in the basket?”

Bessie motioned for Holt to set it down, then she bent over and opened the hamper. As soon as the wire lid on a heavy crock popped open the smell of hearty stew filled the air. Temple’s belly growled. He had only been feigning interest to vex Connie, but now he realized he was starving.

“I guess I am hungry.” He shrugged when Bessie looked at him with a speculative arch of one brow.

“How are things goin?” she asked while she unloaded baskets and crocks.

“Well enough,” Temple hedged.

“Miss Constance has already found something,” Holt supplied while he gazed at Constance in open admiration.

“Is that so?” Temple glanced at her. “Does your find look good?”

“Yes, it looks very favorable. And yours?” She
shrugged. “I could not help but notice the excitement at your camp this morning. I knew you’d found something. Do you think it will prove to be an unknown?”

He frowned and tried not to notice her eyes. The cloudy weather made them look a rich mahogany. He couldn’t decide if the flecks of color around her irises were green or perhaps gold. The question nipped at the edges of his mind while he struggled to keep his thoughts on their conversation.

“Perhaps it is too early to say. And your bones? Do they appear at all familiar?”

She shook her head and the combs holding her heavy hair in place shifted. One strand fell down and curved beneath her chin with a springy bounce. Temple felt his fingers flex while he fought the urge to put it back into place—or take it down completely—he wasn’t sure which he wanted to do.

“Well, this is all mighty fascinatin’, and I do hope you both have found somethin’ but the food is gettin’ cold.” Bessie shattered the enchantment around Temple. “We rode a long way to bring you this, so dig in.”

Temple blinked and glanced around, suddenly embarrassed and a little angry that he had allowed himself to lapse yet again.

Constance picked up the edge of her sodden skirt and moved toward her tent with as much grace as if she were walking on polished marble.

“It smells wonderful, Bessie,” she said. Even in her outlandish muddy costume, in the middle of the Montana badlands, Constance was a lady. She brought out her two camp stools and opened them up. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you, Miss Constance.”

While the women settled themselves, Temple looked around for a rock to sit upon but found nothing but muddy slick earth and short stiff grass.

“There are some empty crates just on the other side of my tent,” Constance offered.

Temple realized she had been watching him. It filled him with an odd satisfaction. A warm feeling rushed through him as he dragged up a crate and seated himself, trying to ignore the way Holt looked at Connie.

The foursome ate and talked about nothing in particular. The hot stew and steaming coffee had driven some of the dampness from Temple’s bones and he found himself relaxing a bit.

“I do hope Mr. Hughes doesn’t have any trouble getting out here.” Connie’s comment drew Temple’s attention and he realized he had missed part of the conversation.

“Oh, Miss Constance, I hate to tell you this, but Peter Hughes won’t be comin’ for several days.” Holt looked truly disappointed and that made suspicion blossom inside Temple’s head.

Holt would be happy as a whitewashed pig to have any excuse to come and see Connie. If he had been jealous—which he wasn’t—the idea would have made Temple angry.

“Oh, I hope no harm has befallen Mr. Hughes.” The concern in Connie’s voice tugged at Temple’s heart.

“No, he’s as ornery as ever, but he doesn’t ride, refused to even try and learn, and the washes are runnin’ with water. He won’t be able to get through for a couple of days. If the rain doesn’t stop, it could be a week or more. But don’t you worry, I’ll come and check on you.”

“Oh, thank you.” Connie ducked her head and stared at her coffee cup. Temple couldn’t tell if she was pleased with Holt’s offer.

“Was there somethin’ special you needed, Miss Constance?” Holt trained his attention on Connie. “I’d be happy to ride in or send one of the men.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I was just…” Connie glanced at Temple as if she didn’t wish to speak in front of him. “That is, I try to communicate regularly with my father.”

Knowledge illuminated the borders of Temple’s mind. “You’ve been sending telegrams back to New York, haven’t you, Connie?”

She met his gaze and flushed a bit. “Yes, I have been sending telegrams to Papa.”

“And of course C.H. has been sharing that information with Dandridge and the
Sentinel.”
Temple narrowed his gaze and allowed the questions to advance unchecked.

How much information had gone back and forth between Connie and C.H.? And how much of the new interest in his past had been generated right here in Montana? He didn’t want to think it of her, but she wanted to win as badly as he did—perhaps even more.

Feelings of betrayal flooded through him. “Thanks for the lunch, but I have to get back to work.” Temple stood and tossed the dregs of his coffee into the saturated earth.

Bessie stood also and brushed at her trousers. She glanced at Holt. “I need to get back too. Will you be stayin’ awhile, Holt?”

“That depends on Miss Constance.” Holt left the hint for an invitation hanging in the damp air.

Temple flashed one dark gaze at Constance, then he
stalked off down the slope toward his site. He couldn’t allow himself to get all tangled up worrying about how she felt about Holt. Especially not if she had been feeding information to those bloodthirsty reporters in New York.

Constance glanced up at the darkening sky. “It’s going to start raining again and I have to cover my bones with canvas before they get soaked.” Apprehension gripped her as she bolted to her feet. She had to safeguard her find.

“May I offer my assistance?’ Holt was beside her, matching his long stride to her short quick one.

Constance glanced at Temple’s wide back one more time as he climbed onto the hillock he and Holt’s men had created. A spurt of anger coursed through her. “Yes, Holt, I’d be pleased to have you help me.”

Temple reached the mound of dirt beside his new find and paused. He glanced back over his shoulder and found Bessie had already mounted her horse and was riding west. Once again Holt Morgan seemed to be using any excuse to put his hands around Connie’s waist as they maneuvered by cowboys and boulders.

Possessiveness flared in Temple’s gut. He turned away and told himself to focus on the bones. Connie was a big girl—and most important, she was his rival in this quest.

He bent down on his knees and carefully started chipping at the sandstone encasing the lower jaw on the magnificent skull. The teeth on the top jaw were longer and thicker than his index finger with beautifully serrated edges. Just looking at the fossil made his pulse quicken. He had found a predator—a hunter— and something previously undiscovered.

Constance giggled and the sound of her laughter
floated through the humid gray air toward Temple. He could not stop himself from rising in order to see over the hillock of dirt. It took all his willpower to keep from leaping out of the hole and marching over to see just what was going on between Holt and Connie.

“I never knew digging could be so damned entertaining,” he snarled aloud. “Hell, I wish we knew the joke so we could all be laughing over here” He commented to himself but a nearby cowboy stopped digging and listened as if Temple had been carrying on a conversation with him.

A deep chuckle from the man brought him back to his senses with a jolt. He was making a fool of himself over his competitor.

T
emple stretched the canvas tight over the skull and weighted down the edges with heavy rocks. The last cowboy from the Flying B had ridden away more than an hour ago and now silence hung as heavy in the air as the threat of rain.

He glanced at Connie’s tent and then back to his own. Holt had made sure his tent had been retrieved from the old camp and erected before he left. Now there was no possibility of Temple needing to sleep on Connie’s side of the canyon. That should have made him happy; but as the oppressive silence bore down on him he found himself wishing for an excuse to speak with her.

The discovery of the skull made him realize his time in Montana was rapidly drawing to a close. After he returned to New York and claimed the prize he would finally be able to settle the old score with C.H. and Dandridge. Then Connie would never speak to him again.

That made him ache with sadness.

A soft thud and a yelp of surprise brought Temple spinning around. His boots bogged down in the soft
wet soil as he climbed up to peer over the hillock of dirt. He was not prepared for what he saw.

Connie was sprawled on her backside on top of folds of heavy canvas tarpaulin, with her knees in the air. She had evidently slid down the muddy embankment and landed on her newly covered find.

Temple chuckled and shoved his hat back on his head while he stared at her. “Do you need some help?” He carefully made his way down the slippery incline toward her. Mud clung to the sides of his boots, making them heavier and more clumsy with each step. The rocky slope was tricky when dry, but the added hazard of water made it treacherous.

“I lost my footing,” she said self-consciously. While he stood there trying not to laugh, she pushed her spectacles up and unconsciously did her owl impersonation. A dollop of mud was drying on her cheek.

Temple stood over her, torn between his impulse of wanting to kiss her and wishing she would just go home before she broke his heart, or the other way around. If she would quit before he humiliated her then at least there might be a chance she wouldn’t hate him.

She started to rise but her feet slipped again. The jolt made her hair tumble down on one side again. The yellow dress was coated with so much mud its original color was no longer discernible. And yet with all the mud and grime she was still as pretty as a Montana sunrise. Temple was tempted to stand there and just admire her, but the sudden sizzle and crack of lightning galvanized him into action.

He hopped down beside her and grabbed her arm.
“We’d better hurry or we’ll be soaked again.” The husky timbre of his voice made him grimace.

When she gripped his hand and pulled herself up, they were inches apart, her nose nearly touching his chin. It would be so easy to lean down and kiss her. He wanted to taste her lips. He wanted to hold her close and feel her heartbeat.

The first raindrop landed on her spectacles. Connie did not seem to notice as she motionlessly stared at Temple.

“Connie, we are going to—” There was no need for his warning because the sky simply opened up and cold droplets pelted down upon them.

“Oh, no. The water will flood my site.” Connie yanked at the loose edge of the tarpaulin, determined to securely cover her find.

Temple’s admiration for her rose another notch. No matter how she looked on the outside, she was all business and duty on the inside. Her serious expression and frantic tugs on the canvas cut a swath straight to his heart.

“Here, let me do it.” Temple stepped around her body and grasped the edges.

“Thank you, Temple, but I can manage,” she protested, squeezing in beside him to secure the tarp at the edges. The sky darkened into shades of purple and indigo.

“Stand back, Connie, I almost have it.” Temple took a step, but she stubbornly blocked his path on the small hillock. The soil was soft and unstable, turning to mud as quickly as the rain soaked into it.

“Temple, you are in my way.”

Before he could correct her on who was actually the one in the way, Temple found himself tangled up in
a flurry of legs, mud and skirt. He knew he was going down and flailed his arms futilely. Then he found himself in the muddy pit beside the tarp-covered bones. Connie was right on top of him, her legs straddling his hips and her nose only inches from his chin.

“You knocked me down.” Connie swiped at her cheek and left a thick smear of mud on her face.

“I did no such thing”. He stared at her in disbelief. His mind and body were at war. The pleasing weight of her brought his manhood to attention while his mind wanted to challenge her statement. No matter what the situation, she seemed bent on blaming him for their predicament. “You were the one in the way,” he managed to point out.

She glared at him through the trickles of water coursing off her hair and down into her face. “This is no time to argue about it. I suggest we get out of this hole before we are struck by lightning, or drown.”

He wondered if she had struck her head during their fall, because she was sounding completely addled. He tried to clear away the swarming confusion that conversing with Connie always brought him while he savored the way it felt to have her legs around his body. Several forbidden images of entwined limbs flashed through his mind, but then a blue-white burst snapped him out of his lethargy.

“Come on, we don’t have time to argue about it now.” He lifted her off him and leaped to his feet. When he started to move his feet came free of their muddy prison with a sucking sound. Connie slipped on the wet canvas and lurched into him with a thud. Her elbow found a tender place in his ribs, causing his breath to escape in a painful grunt.

“Hang on to me, Connie.” Temple ducked his head
against the deluge and bounded up the hill of earth as fast as the muck would allow with Connie in tow.

A silver arc of lightning struck frighteningly close to Connie’s tent. Temple glanced back and saw fear written on her face. A burst of protective instinct made him quicken his pace. He was nearly running now as she clung to his hand.

The air crackled with power, but Constance could not tell if it was due to the lightning or Temple’s strong fingers wrapped around hers. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo while Temple ran, pulling her behind him until her muddy shoes barely skimmed across the rainslicked earth.

Thunder vibrated across the badlands. Temple jerked her forward and she found herself inside the dry dim tent. Their breathing was labored and harsh. She was just barely able to make out the shape of her cot, and Livingstone’s cage still snug beneath its cover. Temple was standing near the opening of her tent, and she saw his silhouette when he yanked the hat off his head. A shower of water droplets sprayed from his trousers and sprinkled her face when he slapped it against his thigh.

“Damn it all to hell—not again.” He cursed. “I am going to grow webs between my toes if this keeps up.”

Constance’s senses were unnaturally heightened. She could hear her own pulse in her ears and Temple’s harsh raspy breathing—could feel the blood coursing through her veins. She twisted her fingers together and tried to slow her rapid heart, telling herself she was being foolish.

There was something hot, palpable and wild within the canvas tent. It hung between the two of them like
a gauzy veil. Each agonizing moment that passed brought a thrum of anticipation surging through her. She had the feeling something was about to happen—something she had been waiting for.

Rain continued to drum upon the canvas overhead, insistent and rhythmic, like the beat of her heart. Their situation was so similar to the last time, yet this time her rebellious heart prayed for a different outcome.

A crimson flame sparked and drove back a tiny portion of darkness while the smell of sulfur filled the tent. Constance instinctively looked toward the light and saw Temple’s strong fingers wrapped around the match. He touched the flame to the wick, then he lowered the glass into position. A glowing arc fanned out across the tent. He pursed his lips and blew out the sulfur stick. Her breath caught in her throat as she focused on his pursed lips.

Water dripped from his ink-black hair onto the raw wooden top of the crate. One touched the chimney of the lantern, hissing as it evaporated. Her gaze was drawn to the fabric of his sodden trousers, molded to the muscles of his thighs and calves in such a way that looking made her mouth dry.

She glanced down at her muddy boots, embarrassed by her. thoughts. Her gaze traveled to his feet where she saw an edge of red-brown clay clinging to the soles of his boots. She drew in a shuddering breath and tried to compose herself.

“We make quite a pair, don’t we, Connie?”

Her eyes snapped back to his face, wreathed in flickering light. A cynical grin twisted one side of his mouth.

She glanced down at her own clothes and suddenly
became aware of the weight of the mud-covered skirt. “I—I—suppose.”

“Water is running like a stream outside. There is no way to build a fire this time, no matter what Holt Morgan might think.“ There was sarcasm in his words.

“You will have to stay.” Her voice was barely audible above the din of rain.

“What?”

“You will have to stay, until the rain stops.”

“I can make it to my own tent. I have dry clothes there.”

She took a step toward him, her boots squishing as she moved. “It would be foolish to risk crossing the wash.”

Temple’s eyes darted to the tent flap and she was reminded of an animal caught in a trap.

“It will let up soon.” He peered outside. He swallowed hard. “Connie, I can’t stay.”

He appeared reluctant to step from behind the crate between them.

“See for yourself, Temple.”

He edged past Constance and raised the tent flap. Droplets of water hit his face and dripped off his determined chin. “I have to leave—now.”

She tried to follow him but as her shoes tangled up with her skirt the cloth tightened around her ankles and she lurched forward. Constance put her arms out in front of her to break her fall, but she suddenly found herself with Temple’s arms wrapped protectively around her. Her bosom was crushed tightly against his chest as he peered down into her face. A few raindrops still meandered down his cheeks and dropped off his chin.

Constance swallowed while time slowed. She wanted to speak but could not find her voice. Temple’s arms were warm against her back and that contact, and the spot where she was touching his chest, were the only things that seemed real.

The smell of rain clung to him and she sucked in great gulps of air, making the space between their bodies more intimate with each breath.

“Are you all right?” His voice was deep like the purr of a house cat and his warm breath fogged her glasses.

“I—I must have tripped.” She stared into his brown eyes and experienced the sensation of falling from a great height. “I can’t imagine how it happened…. “

“You mean you aren’t going to blame me?” He loosened his arms and leaned away from her. His new position only made her more aware of his grip upon her—more aware of his strength and power. A crack of lightning drew their attention to the deluge outside the tent.

Temple turned and Constance rose on tiptoes to see. A torrent of rushing water foamed down the gully only a few feet beyond her tent. It plunged over the areas where she and Temple had been digging. Instead of the formerly dry riverbed fifty feet away, there was now an active creek running in the ravine not more than a yard from the opening of the tent.

“Now you have to stay,” she said softly. “Unless you want to swim.”

Temple dropped the flap and she found her gaze returning to the hard planes of his face.

“Connie, you had better get that wet dress off,” Temple said gruffly. He let her go so abruptly she pitched forward and almost lost her balance again. He
frowned at her in a way that was both expectant and questioning, and she found her breath lodging in her throat.

“You are wetter than I am.” She swallowed hard and tried to keep her thoughts logical and under control.

“Wetter, but certainly not muddier.” He laughed but it was a nervous sound. “Please, for once—don’t argue with me.”

“All right”. She started to take a step but the sodden fabric dragging on the tent floor got in her way again. Temple caught her waist with his hands.

“Just tell me where your dry clothes are and I’ll get them.” He seemed anxious to move away from her. She wondered if he had felt the same molten attraction when they touched each other. But surely a man with Temple’s romantic expertise would not be so shaken.

“In there.” She gestured to the large trunk. Connie felt her pulse thrumming in her ears. She licked her dry lips, suddenly feeling hot and chilled at the same time.

Temple’s eyes roved up and down her face from her eyes to her mouth and back. It seemed as if he were surveying every inch of her, memorizing every nuance of her expression. A hunger started deep within her belly and every nerve in her body seemed to take on a will of its own.

He turned away and opened the lid of the trunk and she heard him swear softly under his breath. She watched the wet material of his shirt strain across the width of his shoulders and her breath caught again. There was something so pleasing about the way his clothing hugged his form. Constance licked her lips
again and wondered what it would feel like to peel the wet shirt from his body.

Temple dug into the pile of clothes blindly. He could not think with Connie standing so near. Each time he glanced at her his belly tightened into a knot. He wanted to touch her. He wanted things between them to be different.

He moved aside a pair of C.H.’s standard khakicolored trousers while he ignored the hot desire coiling within him. As he grasped a fold of fabric, Temple felt something hard inside his palm. He opened his hand and looked at what it was.

The small honey-colored carving lay in his hand. He stared at the childish figure in braids and pinafore and nearly laughed aloud at his stupidity.

Had he really thought of Connie this way? Had he been so blind that he did not see the sensual woman beneath the layers of cloth and netting? Was he such a dolt that he had believed her to be a child, the image of the tiny piece of wood in his hands?