Linda Castle (21 page)

After a couple of attempts he staggered unsteadily to his feet and managed to reach the door. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to retch or jump.

“But if I’m already dead, it makes no sense to kill myself.” Thinking made his head throb more. He opened the door a few inches and gulped in air. It was spiced with the smell of wood smoke.

He glanced up toward the engine, but grit’ and half-dead embers forced him back inside. He clung to the facing of the doorway, trying to piece together recent events.

“I can’t be dead. It hurts too much to be dead.” He closed his eyes and tried to will his reason to return. Finally he dredged up the memory of climbing inside the empty train car.

But now the car was far from empty.

He stared dully at the birdcage and then his gaze
slid to the oilskin cover lying beside it. A small card attached bore the name C. H. Cadwallender. Temple frowned and counted the crates again.

“Three, and one of them Connie’s.” He was puzzling over that when the train whistle blew again causing the blacksmith’s hammer to beat against the anvil with agonizing speed. He flopped down on top of one of the crates, cradled his head in his palms and closed his eyes.

“Temple is a pirate,” Livingstone chirped happily. “Look at me while I love you…lovely creature, awrk.”

Suicide no longer seemed like a viable option, but as Temple glared at the ebony fowl through halfclosed eyes, murder became a strong temptation.

B
onnie stared out the window but she was only marginally aware of the images sliding by. Mud gave way to grassy prairie, cultivated fields became quaint towns and factories, but still her mind and body were in conflict with each other. While she tried to school her thoughts and plan her meeting with her father and Mr. Montague, her senses rebelliously conjured up images of Temple.

She saw his body shimmering in the lake. Hard muscles rippling beneath the surface of the water mixed and swirled with her recollection of him striding across her tent, proud and unembarrassed at his nakedness. With a moan she buried her face in her gloved hands.

“I can’t keep thinking of him. He is out of my life. I have the bones—”

The conductor walking down the aisle paused with his hand on the edge of her seat. “Miss, is there anything wrong? Is there anything I can do?”

Constance glanced up, mortified that she had been talking to herself. “No. I mean, yes—yes, there is. At
the next stop would it be possible for me to send a telegram?”

“No, miss. We only stop at Thompsonville to take on water.” The middle-aged man smiled when she sighed with disappointment. “I could send one for you.”

“Oh, I would appreciate that—if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” He pulled a stubby pencil and a scrap of paper from his coat pocket. He handed them to Constance. “You write it out and I’ll see it gets sent.”

“What time will we reach New York on Thursday?”

The conductor flipped open his watch and peered at it as if that information was contained on the round face. “We should be pulling into the station by eight-thirty, miss. If we don’t have delays unloading, you should be on your way by nine o’clock.”

Constance nodded while she wrote the message to her father. When she reached New York he and Mr. Montague could meet her at the offices of the
Sentinel.
She would have the press waiting to greet her—and to write up the account of her success. Even though proving her theory would have to wait for another expedition, there would be no possibility of Temple winning the prize—none at all.

She watched the conductor fold the paper and put it into the outside breast pocket of his coat. His gait was uneven as he swayed down the aisle of the train car. Just as he reached the connecting door, she rose from her seat, undecided about sending the telegram.

Constance watched the conductor disappear into the next car. She sagged down in her seat, still torn. She
wanted to win in order to keep her promise to her father and help Dandridge. But she questioned if some of her motivation was not revenge against Temple for spurning her. The thought made her squirm uncomfortably in the seat.

Constance tried to occupy herself by watching the other passengers in the crowded car, but her mind was elsewhere. Now that she had allowed herself to think of Temple, she could not concentrate on anything else.

She twisted her gloved fingers together and wondered if he would hate her for what she was doing— but then what did it matter? He did not love her or he would not have left her tent after they had made love. Constance stared out the window and wondered how she could be the winner and have such a hole in her heart.

Hours later Constance was still gazing mindlessly at the passing landscape. The sun had.set and most of the car was nodding in slumber. A child whimpered from somewhere in the train car and was followed by the comforting murmurs of a woman’s voice. She sighed heavily. She would remain unmarried, would never know the joy and tribulation of raising a child.

Would never know the touch of a man again.

She was in love with Temple Parish. Constance Honoria Cadwallender had given herself to the pirate. The man who only cared about fame and fortune.

One hot tear threaded its way down her cheek. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes while the train clattered on through the night.

The lurch of the train car jarred Temple awake. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the wire
cage. Livingstone stretched his wings and fluffed his feathers.

“Good morning, bird.” Temple stood and realized that the train was going much more slowly, perhaps even coming to a stop. The night’s sleep had cured his headache, and the bread and water had sufficed as dinner for both of them.

“I will never drink again,” he promised Livingstone while the train continued to snap and lurch, not stopping completely but making progress only by intermittent jerks. The whine of the metal wheels on rails was interspersed with hissing steam and the grind of couplings absorbing the strain between each car.

“We must have reached New York.” Temple raked his hand through his hair and put on his hat. Then he opened the sliding doors and peered outside.

The rays of the morning sun momentarily blinded him. He hung on to the side of the car and blinked until his vision returned to normal. The Sixty-Fifth Street station loomed in front of him. Ribbons of rails crisscrossed below and beside the train that threaded its way through the maze of engines, cars and cabooses. Metal clanked in protest as cars were dropped off and others were coupled on. Men in greasy clothing swarmed in and out of the tangle of steel. The train rolled a few feet farther and Temple saw a wagon up ahead. A red-haired man in bib overalls, with bulging biceps, held the reins of an impatient draft team.

“Good morning,” Temple shouted while he leaned a little farther out the open door. The man’s head came up and he scanned the train, searching for the source of the voice.

“Yeah, it’s mornin’ but I don’t know how good it is.” Splotches of freckles ran across his wide nose.
When he opened his mouth Temple saw an uneven gap between his front teeth.

“Problems?”

“Aw, I came for a load of freight, but now it’s delayed. Damned New York train yards—a man can hardly make a livin’.” The man turned away, disgusted with his plight and uninterested in any further conversation.

“Is your wagon for hire now?” Temple continued to hang on to the door while the train inched spasmodically along the maze of tracks toward the back of the wagon.

The teamster’s head came around once again, the mention of money having regained his attention. “Could be. Whatcha got?”

The train was barely moving now, lurching as steam coiled back from the engine. One of the huge sorrels stamped an iron-shod foot. The flaxen mane caught the sunlight as the animal tossed its head, obviously as tired of waiting as the man holding the reins.

“Some wooden crates—”

The man pulled gently on the reins, trying to calm the fractious team, and Temple saw heavy muscle cord in his forearm. “How many and where are you headed?”

Temple turned and looked at the crates. His gaze slid from his pair to Connie’s larger one. He felt his gut ball up and he tightened his jaw against his own thoughts. He turned back to the teamster while Peter Hughes’s voice echoed through his head.

He was at the crossroads of his life. Now he had to decide what kind of man he really was.

“Three. I have three crates. I need to transport them to Ashmont University on West Seventy-Ninth.”

“I know the place—near that highfalutin museum of unnatural history, ain’t it?”

“Something like that.” Temple grinned at the man’s misnomer.

“Must be mighty valuable if you rode with them.”

“Let’s just say I didn’t want to lose sight of them.” Temple decided to press on before the teamster called the train bulls to check his story. Tramps and men who rode the rails were treated to the blunt end of a bat first and questioned after the fact. “I’ll pay double for your wagon.”

The teamster wrapped the reins around the hand brake and jumped down. “Sure, I can haul them for you.” He hopped across the tracks until he reached the door where Temple stood. “Slide them out and I’ll carry them across.”

The train was moving so slowly it was almost imperceptible as Temple shoved his two crates to the door. The behemoth easily lifted one up to his shoulder. Within seconds he was back for the second. And then finally he returned for the third—Connie’s crate.

“I’ll help you with this one, it’s bigger.” Temple jumped to the ground.

“Much obliged.” The teamster grabbed one end and Temple the other. Little weight was on Temple’s end and he realized the man could have handled it alone with no difficulty. As soon as it was shoved inside the dray Temple returned to the car and snagged his valise. The teamster watched Temple for a moment, then he stuck his head in the dim confines of the car.

“Mister?” the teamster called. “What about this?”

Temple stopped, frowning. He watched the man vault into the car. One beefy fist held the oilskincovered
cage aloft. “This must be yours too.” The man was looking at him with suspicious narrowed eyes.

Temple had forgotten about Livingstone after he had slid the cover over his cage. He nodded while guilt folded over him in an icy wave. “It is—I mean he is. I nearly forgot him, can’t do that. Bring him along, and thanks.” Temple wasn’t really happy about bringing the chattering bird, but he couldn’t leave the poor creature alone in an empty car.

The teamster hopped down from the slowly rolling car. He ambled to the wagon and handed Temple the cage. He was whistling a happy tune by the time he levered his massive body back into the seat of the wagon. Within moments Temple was watching the tangle of tracks and engine’s belching steam disappear into the distance.

Temple leaned back against one of the crates. He would have to send the bird to C.H.’s house after he collected Montague’s check. Or maybe he -would deliver Livingstone himself, and give C.H. the opportunity to congratulate him in person.

Constance stared out the window at the collection of trains. She had thought they would be pulling up to the platform soon but so far the engine continued to tug and jerk at irregular intervals. She saw the condue tor’s blue hat and waved at him.

He nodded and made his way to her, stopping along the way to answer a question or pull his watch from his coat pocket. “Yes, miss?”

“Have we arrived yet?”

“Yes and no. I’m afraid there is some congestion up ahead. We have to wait for another train to clear
the roundhouse and then we should be able to let passengers off. I’m sorry for any inconvenience this is causing you.” He looked sincere in his apology.

“What time is it?” Constance thought of the telegram she had sent to her father, requesting that he have Filbert Montague meet her at ten-thirty.

“It is half past nine, miss. Is that a problem—I could send word to someone if you need me to.”

‘No. If we are going to be able to get off momentarily it should be all right. Thank you.” Constance settled stiffly back into her seat. She sighed, glad that she had put extra seeds and plenty of water in Livingstone’s cage. As long as she could hire a wagon—and there seemed to be plenty of them sitting idle outside her window—then she and the crate would make it to the
Sentinel
offices on time.

Twenty minutes later the young man she had hired to haul her crate of bones was using his horse and wagon to cut a path toward the baggage car.

“I’d like for you to drive me all the way to the
Sentinel’s
office on Stryker’s Lane.”

“No problem, miss.” The young man tugged down the brim of his cap and concentrated on negotiating the train tracks. Finally the horse gingerly picked its way across one more crisscrossed set to the baggage car of Constance’s train.

“It is a large wooden crate and a covered birdcage. There should be a tag with the name C. H. Cadwallender attached to both.” Constance stood up in the seat and craned her neck to see inside. The young man leaped up inside the car and spoke with the train employee who was sorting mailbags and steamer trunks. Constance saw him push his cap back on his head and
frown. Then he shook his head. The young man returned to the door of the baggage car.

“He says there ain’t no such crate in here, miss. He says there ain’t been nothing like that loaded or unloaded the whole trip.”

“But it has to be. It must be there.” Constance gathered her skirt and jumped down to the ground. She walked to the baggage car and peered up at the boy. “Please, look again. It must be here.”

The boy looked doubtful but he returned to the baggage handler. Constance felt her stomach balling up while they spoke. She could tell by their expressions that her crate was not here. And she knew exactly why.

“Temple Parish—” She turned on her heel while she thought about how she was going to tell her father that she had lost the endowment to the blackesthearted pirate since Captain Kidd.

Thaddeus Ball watched the aging professor’s eyes return again and again to the clock on the wall. He clasped his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the lumpy chair. Miss Constance Cadwallender was late—very late.

“I cannot imagine what has happened to her. She has been raised to be punctual above all else.” Professor Cadwallender focused a sharp don’t-darecontradict-me gaze on Thaddeus.

“Oh, I’m sure she has, sir.” He leaned forward until the legs of his chair hit the bare floor with a thud. “But as it seems she is almost an hour and a half overdue, perhaps we should begin to send inquiries.”

Professor Cadwallender’s brows rose in astonishment. “Exactly what do you mean, young man?”

“I mean that something may have happened—to detain her.”

Filbert Montague, who had remained silent in a well-padded chair throughout the vigil, stood. “I think you may be right. And even though you disavowed the telegram from Mr. Parish as a hoax, I now have to wonder who was pulling whose leg.” The millionaire stared at C.H. as he spoke. “If the young woman shows up with bones in her possession, as you promised, then let me know. Otherwise, you can join me at Ashmont University, where Mr. Temple Parish has promised to deliver my dinosaur. Good day to you, gentlemen.” The man nodded before he picked up his gloves and hat. The glass in the door rattled when he shut it behind him.

“I don’t think he was too happy.”

“Neither am I.” The professor growled. “Something dire must have happened. Honoria has never disappointed me in her life and I doubt she would begin now.”