Linda Castle (20 page)

T
emple took another pull on the whiskey bottle. The sound of a coyote howling outside of town halted the peeps and croaks of the critters sharing space with him inside the woodshed.

He sat up, hitched his boot heel up on the edge of the crate and looked out at the blue-black night. The sound of laughter drew his attention to the saloon across the street.

Against his will, he found his eyes climbing the wooden structure to the windows on the second floor. A light burned in one window.

“Connie’s room.” His words were slurred, his tongue thick from the whiskey. He had been too much of a coward to face her, so he had paid for the bottle and slunk into the woodshed like the street rat she thought he was. Now he was trying his damnedest to get roaring drunk, so he would not think about Connie. He wanted to be so numb that he would not remember what it felt like to hold her, or how his heart beat a little harder inside his chest each time he thought about her.

He had not succeeded.

Constance walked to the narrow window and looked down into the dark street. Holt had finally left her, after he had made sure she had dinner and was settled safely in the small room with a tub full of hot water for a bath. He and the bartender had carried her crate up the stairs, while the men lined up at the bar stared with gaping mouths. She wondered why they reacted so strangely. Heat climbed to her face when she glanced down and realized she was wearing mudspattered men’s trousers.

She had made a spectacle of herself in front of Temple and now she had provided amusement for the residents of Morgan Forks. A sad litany of her achievements. But no matter how much she had suffered, nothing she had been through had lessened her anger at, disappointment in or love for Temple Parish.

She stepped away from the window and started peeling off her clothes. Heavy clumps of mud clung to her trousers as tenaciously as the memory of Temple’s touch clung to her flesh. Her sturdy traveling dress was also filthy, wadded up and stuck into a corner of the crate to cushion her find. The only clothes that had not been ruined on this expedition were the fashionable frocks.

Once she was naked, she stepped into the hot water. From sheer necessity she would have to wear one of those dresses tomorrow. The thought brought back the look on Temple’s face and the sound of his voice when he told her she was pretty.

Hearing him say it had made her feel pretty. She could not remember a time in her life before that moment that she had ever even considered that she
might be
pretty.

Constance removed her spectacles and laid them on
the bare wooden floor beside the tub. She scooted deeper into the narrow space, hoping the hot water might remove the lingering tingle from Temple’s lovemaking. She leaned her head back against the rough staves and willed herself to forget the taste of his kisses. She scrubbed with the hard milled soap until her flesh turned bright pink, and still her skin tingled with the memory of his caress.

How had she allowed herself to become entangled in Temple’s charms? she wondered. But then she chided herself for the thought. Her muscles ached, her head ached, and her pride had been deeply wounded.

Temple had done nothing but be himself—he was long on appeal and short on judgment. At least all the newspapers had made it seem so throughout the years when one debutante after another had been linked to him. No, she could not blame Temple entirely. It had been her own foolishness that brought her to this point. She had been determined to show him she was no longer a child. She had primped and plotted and in her own clumsy, inexperienced way had done everything she could to seduce him.

“And now I am paying the price for my folly.” She splashed water on her face and soaped her hair.

What was done was done. Tomorrow morning she was getting on that train and heading to New York to claim Montague’s endowment.

She had not seen him in town today. Holt had suggested that he might have found another way to travel, in an effort to beat her home, but she refused to think about it now. She had found the bones; now all she had to do was get them back to New York first. Then at least she would have that small victory to comfort her while her heart was breaking.

Before sunrise the high-pitched screech of brakes on metal rails echoed through Temple’s head. He opened one eye and saw a white cloud of steam congeal in the darkness beyond the woodshed. A dull pounding ache settled at the base of his skull when he sat up.

“Couldn’t get drunk, but I sure got the hangover,” he whispered to himself. He winced at the sound of his own voice but he managed to make it to his feet and sling his leather valise over his shoulder. When he staggered out into the darkness, it was quiet, save for the blowing sound of the steam engine.

Temple looked down thé tracks and saw nobody. The train obscured his view of the saloon and the room above where Connie now slept. He grated his teeth together, against the pain in his head and his continued passion for a woman who held only contempt for him.

He staggered down the row of cars, peering inside each one as he passed. The baggage car was loaded with trunks and boxes. He paused for a moment while he considered what to do. He didn’t want to leave his crates alone for a minute, but he didn’t want to be around when Connie’s crate was loaded either.

Temple went farther down the train until he found another car, empty with the big doors standing wide open. A pile of straw was in one corner and it looked as if someone might have used it for a bed.

Temple tossed his valise inside while stars danced in his pounding head. Then he made his way back to the shed, and gritting his teeth against the whiskeyinduced agony, he picked up one of his crates. Cursing the whole time for being such a fool to let himself fall in love with Connie, he lifted it through the wide door and slid it across the rough planks. He repeated the
trip, all the while mumbling under his breath. When both crates were inside, he jumped into the car and collapsed in the narrow space between the crates and the wall.

He had the straw for a bed, his leather bag for a pillow and his guilt for company. He squeezed his eyes tight and prayed he could sleep off the feeling that a blacksmith had taken up residence inside his skull. All the while trying to forget that he was planning to break Connie’s heart.

Peter downed the cup of bitter coffee before he glanced at the empty staircase. He figured Miss Cadwallender was up and around, and had expected to see her down here before now. For one minute he entertained the idea that she had decided to stay—to avoid Temple—to let him win by default. But the thought was no sooner in his head than he was discounting it. She had too much spunk for that.

Still there was nobody on the stairs. Perhaps she needed help getting loaded. He had heard the curious speculation surrounding her and the crate most people were sure had to be a coffin. It never ceased to amaze Peter that folks would take the most ordinary incident and blow it into something dramatic.

While he was grinning at the notion, he saw a flutter of petticoat on the top stair, then a dress the hue of pink posies, with stripes the color of rich cream running through the shimmering material. As she descended the narrow staircase, a little more of her was revealed, until finally he was looking at her from toe to the top of her glossy head. Her dark hair was coiled and caught by a simple comb, the only jewelry she wore was a pair of cameo earbobs.

Miss Cadwallender gripped the railing with a slender gloved hand and carried the birdcage with the other. She took another step slowly—as if she were not used to the feel of the dress and full petticoats.

Peter couldn’t help grin. Just when he had grown used to seeing her covered in mud, wearing men’s trousers, she emerged looking more beautiful than a lady had a right to.

“Miss Cadwallender, you make an old fellow’s heart skip a beat.” Peter lounged against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and watched a Montana sunset appear in her smooth cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr. Hughes.” She took the last few steps quickly, as if his compliment had made her uneasy.

“The train is loading. I thought you might need some help with your crate.” He took the wire cage from her as he spoke.

“Yes, I do.” She glanced back up the stairs.

“No need to worry yourself. Let me get you on the train and I’ll see it is loaded into the baggage car for you.”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Hughes, but I can find my way to the train alone,” Constance assured him.

“Oh, I know that, miss, but the mud is ankle-deep. You’ll need help crossin’ the street to keep your skirt dry and you’d never be able to manage this thing.” He nodded at the cage.

Constance’s brows knit together. She glanced out the streaked window as if to verify what Peter said. “Oh. I had forgotten about the mud,”

“It’s not a problem, miss. Just give me a minute
and I’ll bring the wagon up to the door and then deliver you right to the train car.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Hughes. I won’t forget all you have done.” She touched him on the back of the hand with her glove-encased fingers and for the first time in years, Peter couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Constance stood at the door of the saloon and waited while Mr. Hughes instructed two men about her crate. Then he disappeared down the street to what she supposed was the stable. In minutes he was turning his wagon around in front of the saloon.

“There you are, miss.” He grinned and reached out to give her a hand. Livingstone’s cage was already in the middle of the seat. She settled herself stiffly beside the bird, painfully aware of the fact that she would probably never see Mr. Hughes again.

“Mr. Hughes, I’d like to give you—” Constance dug into her reticule.

“Don’t go insultin’ me by offerin’ me more money. I’ve been paid more’n enough for what I’ve done for you. You just get yourself back to New York and show Temple Parish what a lady can do—when she’s given the chance.”

She looked up and met his eyes. Her bottom lip trembled slightly. “Oh, Mr. Hughes—I—I,”

“There now, don’t go makin’ me feel bad by cryin’. I never could abide a weepin’ woman.” He cleared his throat but the hot lump remained. “Here we are—just like I promised.”

Constance looked up to find she was looking directly at the train steps. A cloud of steam billowed out from the engine.

“You just step straight across.” Peter offered his hand to steady her and she did as he instructed. “Do
you want the bird with you or shall I see him to the baggage car?”

“I would be more comfortable if Livingstone were in the baggage car. I have packed some bread and seeds and have a small container of water in a pouch for him.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll make sure the man in the baggage car knows all about him. They are bringin’ your crate over now, I see. I hate goodbyes, so I think I’ll just leave you now and see to the loadin. He met her gaze. “You take care of yourself, understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Hughes, I understand—and you too.” She smiled at him for half a minute, then she turned and disappeared inside the train car. He saw her ease into a seat before he urged the team on. The men were just carrying her crate across the street when Peter arrived at the baggage car. He was about to have the men load the crate when he. heard something. Curiosity made Peter walk toward the open car and peek inside. He saw a familiar pair of mud-caked boots.

“Bring that crate over here, boys.” Peter snatched up the birdcage and the packet of food and water. He stood back while the men pushed the crate into the car. I’ll see you boys at the saloon in just a bit— then we’ll settle up—if that’s all right with you.”

The men nodded in agreement and trudged back into the muddy street. Peter stepped farther inside the dim car. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting he looked around for a place to set Livingstone’s cage. He finally put it and the packet of food on top of one of the other two crates adjacent to Miss Cadwallender’s.

“Well, Livingstone, it looks like you are goin’ to
have company on the trip home.” Peter jerked off the oilskin covering.

Gingerly Peter lifted Temple’s hat from his face. The smell of whiskey wafted up.

“Pickled, that’s what he is, Livingstone, pickled.” Peter shook his head and replaced the hat. “I would love to see the look on his face when he finds you and Miss Cadwallender’s crate ridin’ with him.” Peter chuckled to himself. He didn’t believe that Temple had changed from that defiant boy who had faced down the Tammany thugs—and he was willing to bet Miss Cadwallender’s happiness to prove it to him. “And if you have any influence on the boy, talk to him, Livingstone—talk to him and change his mind.” Peter chuckled as he slid the door shut. He stood back and watched as the conductor walked by, shouting that the train was getting ready to leave.

Peter glanced at the car while a smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “I’ve done all I can do, now I’ll just have to wait and see how it all turns out.” Peter watched the train swaying down the track until it was no more than a dark speck on the horizon.

Temple slowly became aware of the rocking motion. His mind was foggy—thick from the effects of the whiskey. He turned over, seeking a more comfortable position.

“Awrk, Temple is a pirate,”

The familiar grating sound brought his eyes open with a start. He put one elbow on a crate and levered himself up. That made the anvil and hammer inside his skull quicken their unrelenting tempo.

“Sweet, sweet, Connie. Open your eyes while I love you, awrk.”

“Oh, God—I am in hell.” Temple moaned. “I died and God has sent me to Hades” He dragged his hand through his tousled hair and blinked at the apparition of the bird.

“Temple is a pirate,” the bird rasped again. “Awrk, pirate—pirate. Lovely creature…taste every inch of, awrk, your body, awrk.”

“Oh, Lord, I never dreamed there would be Livingstones in hell.” Temple heard the misery in his own thick words. “Why me?” He glared at the bird as if he expected a lucid answer.

“Awrk. Connie’s a beautiful lady. Kiss me, awrk.”

Temple struggled up, and clung to the edge of the crate, willing his stomach to stop churning. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt worse. The swaying of the train made his vision blur and his mouth felt as though a herd of camels had bedded down inside it.