Linda Castle (3 page)

“He is still laughing at me.” She walked to the small neatly made bed and sat down. Constance tried to ignore the hilarity but the sound continued to hammer at the closed door. Temple’s reaction to her suggestion really was the most baffling and insulting thing she had ever experienced.

“Most confounding.” And infuriating, she finally admitted to herself. For the first time in her memory, Constance was seething with anger.

Another barrage of baritone chuckles wafted up the stairs. Constance found the image of her father’s elderly colleagues swimming in her mind.

They frequently looked at her with bemused expressions—or
patted her hand and offered her some patronizing explanation about
why
she couldn’t participate in their scholarly activities. In fact she almost expected it from them. But to have Temple Parish, of all people on earth, sitting downstairs, in a barroom in Montana, laughing at her.

It was simply unthinkable.

“And humiliating.” Constance rose from the edge of the bed. Her long skirt rustled while she walked to the small door. She opened it a crack and heard a renewed torrent of mirth blend with the slightly offkey piano music.

“That is quite enough from you, Mr. Temple Parish.” Her ears burned with heat each time his deep, well-modulated voice caught her attention. She pushed her spectacles up on her nose and opened the door a few inches wider. “Quite enough, indeed. I believe it is time we came to an understanding, Mr. Parish” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders before she started down the hallway.

Temple had the glass halfway to his lips when he glanced up and saw her on the staircase. She was swathed in black bombazine from her jawline to the toes of her very sensible and unattractive shoes. The creamy oval of her face was almost lost beneath the coil of heavy chestnut hair. Her eyes were hidden behind the thick rectangles of glass perched on the bridge of her nose. Her shoulders and neck were rigid and set with unyielding indignation.

She was furious, and it showed in every stiff step she took down the steep poorly lit stairs.

Temple watched her progress and realized with some amusement that he had become quite adept at
putting women into a high state of emotion—whether he intended to or not.

“Mr. Parish, I would have a word with you.” Constance felt the silence rush through the room like a blast of cold northern wind. The men who had been having a jolly time at her expense ducked their heads and turned away from her in embarrassment.

The music ceased with one last awkward sour note that rang through the silent room like a death knell. Temple glanced at the piano player in unmasked annoyance, but the man only shrugged and slid off the stool. He slunk to the bar, turned his back and ordered himself a drink. It tickled Constance to see all the men casting furtive glances at her in the dusty streaked mirror behind the bar.

Temple turned to face her, the only man in the room who could, it would seem. The look in his eyes was frosty and she heard her father’s words echoing in the back of her mind:
the blackest-hearted pirate to walk God’s earth since Captain Kidd

She tilted her head and studied his face. After a moment’s thought Constance decided it was just possible that description was too kind. In fact, she thought with a large portion of silent sarcasm, it was more likely a terrible slight against poor Captain Kidd than it ever was to Temple Parish.

Temple cleared his throat and drew her attention. “Please, by all means, Miss Cadwallender, won’t you join me?” Temple swept his hand toward an empty table. He smiled, but his eyes did not warm. He was playing the gallant for the benefit of his audience, who were watching every move reflected in the mirror from beneath their lowered hat brims.

Well, let him posture and preen for this rowdy
group, she mused silently. She intended to add to their entertainment in ways Temple had never even imagined. With a rustle of stiff fabric and petticoats, she nodded stiffly and seated herself in a straight-backed chair.

“May I offer you some refreshment?” Temple raised his own glass while he leaned back. He flopped his arm over the back of the chair and settled himself comfortably. The look on his lean weathered face left no doubt that he considered himself master of this— or any—domain.

“No. Thank you.” Constance replied in curt clipped tones.

He looked at her with only mild interest, his dark brown eyes sweeping over her face carelessly as if he had seen all he needed or wanted to see at their first meeting. He tipped the glass to his lips and drained it.

Constance studied him closely. If she squinted her eyes, and used her imagination, she could almost see him with a gold earring in one lobe, a wicked dagger between his clenched teeth.

Yes. He was a pirate, a philistine, an ingrate and every other terrible thing her father had called him over the past ten years. She had not possessed the intelligence to recognize it as a child, but she saw him clearly now. He was a handsome brute, without scruples or conscience. It was going to be a pleasure to see that self-assured grin disappear from his lips.

Constance met the arrogant gaze of Temple Parish and felt a warm flush in her cheeks. At that same moment ten years of childish dreams crumbled into dust at her feet. She raised her chin and forced herself to smile as if her heart were not beating too rapidly in
her bosom. He needed to be taught a lesson in manners and in the abilities of a modern thinking woman.

“Mr. Parish, I have given our predicament some thought”

“Have you?” He flashed her a wider, but no less false, smile. His straight white teeth contrasted starkly against the tanned flesh of his angular face. She noticed the raised white scar on his cheek.

“Yes, I have,” Constance replied evenly.

“Well, I’m happy to hear it. It was a long way for you to have traveled in vain, but then again the trip wasn’t a total loss for you. I mean, after all, we have had a pleasant reunion—haven’t we?”

She shoved her spectacles up on her nose. “Is that what we’ve been doing, Mr. Parish? Having a reunion?”

His smile slipped and for a moment was replaced by a frown but within seconds the dazzling smile was back in place. “Of course, Connie, it has been nice to see you after all these years. I had hoped it would be C.H. who came but… Tell me, what have you been doing to keep busy?”

“Oh, this and that.” Constance smiled stiffly.

“Really? Do you still accompany C.H. on expeditions?”

Constance heard the brittle tone of Temple’s voice and realized he was more than just a little interested in what her father had been doing. Once again the old rumors about Temple raced through her mind.

“Papa has been lecturing rather steadily for the past few years.”

“Is that so?” he asked with mild interest.

“Yes, but he did unearth some wonderful things in
South America a few years ago. I have been cataloging and illustrating them for Dandridge University.”

Temple stiffened perceptibly at the mention of Dandridge. “I’m sure you do fine work, Connie. Dandridge is no doubt lucky to have you.” There was a note of sarcasm in his compliment.

“How nice of you to say so. And I have managed to acquire one or two other skills since we last met.” Constance continued to study his face from behind the protective barrier of her spectacles.

“Really? You must tell me, what else do you do?” Temple’s words were dripping with open condescension.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Parish, I am a digger,” she said flatly.

His brows shot up, but other than that he managed to suppress any further reaction. “You don’t say, Connie—a digger? A female digger? I have never heard of such a thing.”

He nodded to the bartender and held his empty glass aloft.

Constance glanced at the man who grabbed a tall bottle in his hand, then she turned back to Temple. “I am quite competent, as I told you. So competent, in fact, that I intend to complete the expedition my father sent me on, Mr. Parish.”

His smile slipped at the same moment the bartender appeared at Temple’s elbow and began pouring liquid into his glass.

“You what?” he asked loudly. His question echoed through the silent barroom. Several men leaning on their elbows actually turned around and gaped at him.

Constance nodded and continued. “You heard me correctly, Mr. Parish. I intend to leave Morgan Forks
tomorrow morning at sunrise, but before I go, I wanted to issue you a new challenge to go along with the one we have both accepted from Mr. Montague.”

“Challenge? Me?” Temple brought his arm down from the back of the chair. He no longer appeared to be uninterested in what she had to say—in fact he was perched on the edge of his chair, leaning across the table toward her as if he were on tenterhooks, waiting for her to speak. His dark eyes were trained on her face with single-minded intent. His long fingers were splayed out on the scarred tabletop. “You are challenging me?”

“Yes, that is if you are up to the task,” Connie replied smoothly. It was difficult to continue staring at Temple now that he was mere inches from her, but she did so without blinking until he at last glanced away.

“What task did you have in mind, Miss Cadwallender?” His voice was brittle with suspicion and his pet name for her had conspicuously vanished.

“The challenge I am issuing you is this, Mr. Parish. In addition to the endowment Mr. Montague is offering, I am proffering you a personal challenge as well. There will be no money involved, so you may not be interested…”

One brow shot upward when her intentional barb hit its mark. “What kind of a challenge, Miss Cadwallender?”

She leaned forward. Constance had never been very good at public speaking, but she cleared her voice and took a deep breath. She wanted to make very sure that every man who was lined up at the bar heard her clearly. “This challenge would affect only your pride—your ego, Mr. Parish.”

“Speak your mind, Miss Cadwallender.” His brown eyes narrowed down to predatory slits and there was open hostility in his voice.

“I not only intend to find a previously unknown species of dinosaur for Mr. Montague, I intend to do it on my own and long before you can even locate one.” She spoke loudly.

The impact of her words settled on the interested occupants of the room and drew a deep murmur from the men who were bent in speculative conversation.

“You’re mad,” Temple said in a whisper only she was meant to hear.

“Perhaps, but the challenge stands. Are you declining—admitting you are not up to the task?”

“What?” Temple snorted.

“Are you admitting I am the better digger?”

Temple stood up so quickly the chair legs screeched on the floor. He glared down at her. “You’re female.”

“How very astute of you to notice, Mr. Parish.” Constance forced herself to remain sitting and watch Temple even though it made her neck cramp to do so. A collection of emotions raced across his face and through his eyes while they held each other’s gaze.

“It would be ridiculous for me to compete with a—a—woman. I would be a laughingstock.”

“I fail to see why, but if you would rather admit that I—a Cadwallender and a female—am more competent and capable…” She shrugged then placed her palm on the table as if she were rising from her chair.

A wide rough hand closed over her own and stilled her movement. Constance tilted her head and looked up.

Temple sucked in a breath that seemed to be too much air for one man to hold in his lungs, then suddenly
it left him in a great angry rush. “I will never admit to that!” he bellowed.

“Then I assume you are accepting my challenge?” Constance glanced at the mirror, but now every man was turned, watching. She experienced a measure of satisfaction when she saw every pair of expectant eyes was trained on Temple’s face.

“Miss
Cadwallender!” Temple nearly vibrated with indignation. “I would much prefer you exercised some sense, remembered where you belong and returned home.”

“I am not leaving until” I find those bones,” she said calmly.

His face turned three shades of red. “Then it appears I have no choice but to accept your challenge. I would be most happy to prove who is the better— digger.” His voice was a tightly controlled rumble.

“Good.” Constance nodded stiffly at him. Then she scooted her chair backward. It took some effort for her to pull her hand from beneath his, but finally she was able to stand up. “Now if you will excuse me, I shall see you tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

When she turned on her heel she heard a soft hiss as Temple drew another furious breath between his tightly clamped teeth. All the way to the staircase she was smiling.

She was going to enjoy this—very, very much.

“S
o, you see, Mr. Hughes, I want to make sure that my messages are sent back to my father on a regular basis.” Constance stopped pacing.

“Yes, Miss.” Peter stifled a grin. He was seeing more excitement than he’d had since he fled New York City with Tweed’s stolen money and the Tammany thugs on his heels. Miss Cadwallender had a conniving streak beneath all those proper manners. He couldn’t help but like her. He had been mighty surprised when the bartender had sent a message for him to come back to the saloon—that Miss Cadwallender had to speak to him. For a bit he had half expected her to tell him she was packing up and heading back to New York, but she set him straight about that notion quicker than he could skin a cat.

“Mr. Parish has been known to be—well—unorthodox,” She twisted her fingers together and tried to explain why she was making these preparations. After she had goaded Temple into accepting the challenge, it had occurred to her that she needed a tiny edge— just in case.

“Yes, miss, I can see he might have that inclination,” Peter agreed solemnly.

“Not that I’m asking you to do anything unethical—I would never ask you to do that, Mr. Hughes.”

“No, miss.”

“I just want to make very sure that I don’t fail my father or Dandridge University,”

“Yes, miss, I understand. I can see a lady like yourself would never suggest anything that wasn’t on the level.”

“I’m so glad you understand, Mr. Hughes.”

“Yes, miss, I do—I do understand.” Mr. Hughes nodded his head rhythmically while he spoke.

“In the past there have been rumors that Temple, I mean Mr. Parish, has been known to employ methods that were considered—uh—corrupt.” Constance wrung her hands and paced up and down the bare floor of the room. The solitary kerosene lamp managed to illuminate the small room quite well. Her pulse was still beating unevenly and she admitted to herself that she had never before been quite so excited. All her preparations and precautions were necessary and completely legitimate since she was dealing with Temple Parish. Any sensible individual could see he was a man without principles. She really had no choice, Constance told herself.

“Securing this endowment is very important to my father’s reputation and it is vital to the university. It is extremely consequential to me as well,” she admitted while she stared at the moon hanging in the Montana sky.

“Yes, miss, I see that you are real serious.” Peter kept his eyes on her while she paced up and down. The heavy black material rustled with each tense step.

“I am so pleased that we have come to this understanding, Mr. Hughes. It does take a burden from my shoulders. When we leave tomorrow I shall rest easy in my mind now.” She walked to her carpetbag and dug down deep inside it. “And I insist that you take something extra, for your trouble.”

“Miss, that really isn’t necessary,” Peter began.

“No—I insist This is not part of the original agreement you made with Mr. Montague and his agents. I wouldn’t feel right about you doing these things for me, unless you allow me to compensate you for your inconvenience.”

Peter stared at Miss Cadwallender. Behind the thick spectacles she had soft brown eyes fringed with thick curved lashes. They reminded him of a fawn’s eyes, innocent and trusting. A light dusting of freckles was sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. He felt a strange and unexpected protectiveness toward her, as if she were a favorite niece.

“Please, Mr. Hughes.” Constance extended the handful of money. “Please take it, I would feel much better if you did.”

“If you insist, Miss Cadwallender, but I’d do it for nothing—for you.” Peter felt heat in his cheeks when the words tumbled out, but it was true. He liked this young woman. And, he realized, he was going to have a jolly good time watching her turn Temple Parish’s arrogant hide inside out. He shoved the bills deep into his pocket while a grin crept across his lips.

She blinked behind the thick eyeglasses. “You are so kind, Mr. Hughes. I cannot tell you how your assistance will speed my work. Thank you once again.”

“Is there anything else, Miss Cadwallender?” Peter
stood. It was getting late and he needed to get some sleep.

“No—nothing I can think of, Mr. Hughes. You have been most tolerant of my situation.”

“Don’t mention it, miss.” Peter stepped out onto the landing before the chuckle bubbled from his throat. Young Miss Cadwallender was crafty. She had the kind of mind old boss Tweed would have admired. Peter took two steps toward the narrow stairs before he heard a strange hissing noise. He stopped and tilted his head to listen. The noise was a little like the sound a bobcat makes. Peter squinted his eyes and peered down the narrow hall.

“Psst.” The sound came again.

Peter whirled around and found Temple Parish hiding behind a half-open door at the opposite end of the narrow hallway.

“Psst.” Temple Parish waved his hand at Peter. “Come here.”

Peter raised his bushy eyebrows and pointed at his own chest in doubt.

“Yes—you. Come here,” Temple whispered harshly while he gestured with his hand once again.

Peter walked down the hallway toward the partially open door, puzzled by Parish’s strange behavior. When he reached the door, Temple opened it wide enough to grab Peter’s shirt with one hand. He jerked him inside the room and shut the door behind him.

“What the devil is this all about, Parish?” Peter jerked his shirt from Temple’s fingers. No wonder Miss Cadwallender was nervous; having to deal with this hothead would make a body plumb jittery. “What’s the matter with you?” Peter demanded.

“I need to talk to you.” Temple Parish snapped.

“Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow morning when we leave?” Peter straightened his shirt and glared at Temple.

“No. I wanted to discuss our arrangement—before you guide us to the site tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.” Peter nodded knowingly. “Are you backing out—admitting the lady is a better—uh—digger?”

“Not on your life.” Temple stood with his boots spaced wide apart. He crossed his arms at his chest and gave Peter a scathing glare. “The very notion is ridiculous.”

Peter shrugged. “I was just asking.” He glanced at the narrow bed, smooth and untouched, and the single wooden chair in the room. “Can I sit?”

Temple blinked rapidly, as if he had only just become aware of the furniture in the tidy little room. Peter had a notion Temple had been wasting as much shoe leather pacing up and down the floor as Miss Cadwallender had been doing a bit ago.

“Sure—sit. Would you like a drink? I have a bottle in my valise.”

If Parish was starting out with the pretext of a drink, Peter assumed the subject was going to be a ticklish one.

“I could drink—” Peter grinned and eased himself into the chair “—as long as you are buying.”

Temple tossed a battered leather valise onto the bed. He unfastened the buckles on the worn straps and pulled the ancient satchel open. He dug into the contents like an angry badger through loamy turf. Finally he brought out a bottle of whiskey. Peter had not seen that particular brand since he left New York.

“Sorry, I don’t have any glasses,” Temple apologized.

“Don’t need any.” Peter took the bottle by the neck, uncorked it, wiped off the lip and took a long swallow. The full-bodied liquid burned pleasantly down his gullet. It left a wave of memories from the old days in its wake. Peter pushed the dim recollections aside and focused on Temple’s face. “What did you want to talk about?”

“About tomorrow.” Temple clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace the room. His expression was darker than a rain cloud. Peter took another pull on the bottle and waited.

“When I find what I’m after, the bones, and I leave—” Temple stared at Peter with his brows pinched together I’sI—know little Connie, I mean Miss Cadwallender, will be very disappointed. I just want to make sure you will stay with her, see that she gets back on the train safely, after I am gone. Will you do that?”

Peter grinned in amazement. He had expected quite a different request from Temple. The way Parish was talking now, if Peter didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Miss Cadwallender was a child, instead of the calculating and very capable lady she appeared to be. But Peter decided to go along with Parish’s scheme, at least as long as he was serving aged whiskey.

“Sure, I’d be happy to keep an eye on the little lady. Course, you know this is an extra service. This is above what I had agreed to do for Mr. Montague. I would have to have—compensation.” Miss Cadwallender’s term rolled cleanly off his tongue.

“Of course, I wouldn’t expect to have it any other way,” Temple said dryly. He strode to the bed and dug deeper into the valise. He pulled out a soft leather
pouch. He brought out five silver dollars and put them in Peter’s waiting hand. “There is one other thing, Hughes.”

Somehow Peter had known there would be. “And what is that, Parish?”

“I want to be sure that my messages reach the telegraph office here in Morgan Forks without interruption. I need to be sure Mr. Montague is informed of my progress daily and he is notified the very moment I find his dinosaur for him.”

“Can’t do that.” Peter shook his head.

Temple glared at him with his sun-lightened eyebrows pinched together. “What do you mean, you can’t do that? Can’t—or won’t?”

Peter grinned and took another drink of the smooth whiskey. “I can’t send telegrams to New York daily, ‘cause the trip to the canyon takes a full day and a half in good weather.”

Some of the tension left Temple’s shoulders. “Oh—I see. Well, then I would like you to get word of my progress to Mr. Montague as quickly, and as regularly, as possible.”

“Are you asking me to bring your messages into town for you?” Peter was having a good time. Temple Parish was as prickly as a porcupine when it came to this competition with Miss Cadwallender.

“Yes. I won’t be leaving camp, or stopping until I find what I’m after. Just see my telegraphs are sent to Mr. Montague’s agent.” Temple lifted one brow. “I don’t think Miss Cadwallender needs to know anything about our arrangements.”

“You’re right about that” It will be our secret,” Peter promised solemnly while he gave Temple an exaggerated wink.

Temple frowned at him. “It’s nice to know I can—uh—depend on you, Hughes. Little Connie— that is. Miss Cadwallender should be no trouble to you at all.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that, too, Parish,” Peter agreed while he fought to keep a straight face. “I don’t think she’ll be one whit of trouble to me, but you might ought to worry ‘bout yourself.”

The sun was poking holes in the dusky eastern sky when Temple climbed aboard the wagon and settled himself between two large wooden crates. He hitched up his boot and rested it on a mound of canvascovered supplies.

“What is all this?” he demanded.

“My supplies,” Constance answered from behind the netting extended over the big-brimmed hat. She stood beside the wagon staring up at Temple. His eyes narrowed as they slid over her traveling costume. Then his expression altered until it was identical to the one he wore yesterday when she reintroduced herself.

Constance stiffened beneath his arrogant gaze. She was still bristling with anger over Temple’s attitude toward her. She had come to expect this kind of patronizing folderol from her father’s colleagues, but never from Temple Parish. She had already checked her list of supplies and tools before Mr. Hughes loaded them in the back of the wagon. Now she paused and looked at her trunk, where Temple’s boot heel was propped. He was squeezed between her crates like a sardine in a tin. He fidgeted and wedged his broad shoulders between two boxes. Constance found herself smiling behind her insect netting. Seeing how her
crates and trunks bothered Temple, she was almost sorry she hadn’t brought more.

“All set, Miss Cadwallender?” Peter Hughes lifted her up.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Hughes.” Constance settled herself on the hard wagon seat and forced herself to ignore Temple’s scowl.

Temple moved but his hip connected with the sharp edge of a crate. He could not believe that anybody could need so many supplies. He turned his head, thinking to tell Connie as much, but all he could see was a swath of insect netting and sand-colored canvas. She was camouflaged from head to foot and perched stiffly on the high wooden wagon seat behind him. It was unnerving.

“If you need anything, miss, you just say so.” Peter’s voice dripped with a sincerity that set Temple’s teeth on edge.

Temple frowned and mugged a face at Peter’s words. How could she possibly need anything? Hell, she must have half of the state of New York packed into all the damned boxes, trunks and crates that surrounded him.

Peter climbed up beside Connie and picked up the reins. Temple pulled his hat low on his forehead, determined to ignore her on the trip to the canyon, but no matter how he turned his body to find a comfortable position in the wagon bed, his gaze kept returning to the huge hat and insect barrier that obscured her face.

He tried to turn and raked his shoulder on a metal latch. A hot tide of anger coursed through him. He was angry with little Connie. That surprised him. Not that she hadn’t done plenty to make him angry years ago before he left C.H.’s house, but he had always
spoiled and indulged her. Now it was different—he was different. Silly little Connie had gone too far by challenging him. He wished she would go home— wished she had not used his ego as a weapon to goad him into this ridiculous competition. She could not win. There was nothing ahead for her but humiliation and defeat.

Acknowledging that made him angry as well. Being orphaned on the streets of New York had given Temple a thick hide, but C.H. and his doe-eyed daughter had gotten under his skin way back then. Evidently they were still able to make him itch—after all these years.

Temple pushed his hat back on his forehead and shoved the old memories to the back of his mind. He took out his knife and cut a thick slice of wood, about the size of his index finger, from the closest pine crate. While Peter and Connie chatted, and the wagon rocked back and forth he whittled. The repetitive task allowed his mind to wander aimlessly.