Linda Castle (4 page)

Connie laughed at some comment Hughes made. Her girlish giggle reminded Temple of the old days. Even though it was stupid, he found himself straining to hear what was being said. The sun rose higher in the sky while Temple’s shoulder knocked against the crates. He tried to adjust to the lumbering sway of the wagon while he diligently whittled.

The spring sunshine of Montana felt good. This country and setting were so different from the cold spring day when C.H. had found him alone and bloody in the park.

He snapped his head up, shocked at his mind’s persistence in dredging up old memories. It had been eighteen years since he had been taken in by C. H.
Cad wallender. Too damned long ago to matter. Temple had put a million miles and a hundred countries between him and Dandridge University since that day, and yet here he was on a wagon with C.H.’s only child. And as much as Temple hated to admit it, it did matter. Winning the prize and showing C.H. that he was more than a street rat mattered very much.

“When I find those damned bones for Montague, C.H. will no longer have to be ashamed of taking me in” Temple muttered under his breath, and the sound of his own voice startled him.

He glanced up to see if Connie or Hughes had heard him, but neither one of them had changed positions or lessened their steady conversation. He went back to his whittling while thoughts of Montague’s endowment flooded his mind.

He was not going to allow little Connie to stand in his way. With a rich endowment for Ashmont he might finally have a measure of respectability, and that was worth any price—any price at all.

T
emple watched the herd of antelope bound by. Hughes grumbled about the animals taking so long to cross, slowing the wagon’s progress toward their destination, but Connie was standing up in the wagon watching. At least Temple thought she was. The thick folds of her dress made it difficult to tell much of anything about the position or shape of her body.

The huge herd gamboled across the wagon trail to disappear over a gently sloping rise into a hollow. When the last white rump vanished from sight, Connie clapped her hands together in childish glee.

“Oh, Mr. Hughes, they are extraordinary,” she declared as she settled herself amid the mound of sandcolored cloth. “I really must do some sketches of the local wildlife. It would be lovely to have a set framed for Papa’s office.”

The mention of that dusty room made Temple’s jaw muscles tighten. His insatiable curiosity forced him to sit up. “Is he still in the science wing of the Palmer Building?” He continued to whittle, never looking away from the hunk of pine even though he was paying close attention to Connie and her answer.

A rustle of stiff fabric telegraphed Connie’s intent to swivel around on the hard wagon seat. It took a few minutes for her to manage to move all the material surrounding her body.

“Yes—he is,” she said.

He could not see her face behind the netting, but her voice held a tone of undisguised amazement.

“It was so long ago when you left, I am surprised that you would remember such an insignificant thing as the exact location of his office.”

He shouldn’t remember. But every small incident and minute detail was as clear as if it had been yesterday instead of ten years ago when he lived with C.H. and Connie.

“I have a good memory.” Temple bent his head lower to′concentrate on the hunk of wood, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. His brows pinched together in annoyance and he promised himself that he would not allow his curiosity to get the better of him again.

“Yes, you certainly do.” Constance turned back to face the front of the wagon. The team was trudging slowly and Peter slapped the reins against the rumps of the horses as if he were anxious to reach the canyon. The wagon lurched forward and Temple neatly sliced the tip of his thumb with the razor-sharp blade.

“Damnation, Hughes. You’ve made me nick myself.” Temple stuck his thumb against his tongue to stanch the flow of blood. The faint taste of iron filled his mouth as blood oozed from the stinging gash. The wagon jerked again as it came to a halt.

“What is it?” Constance demanded. She had somehow managed to climb over the iron railing at the back of the seat—quite a feat considering the amount of cloth that surrounded her. She was kneeling, or he believed
she was kneeling, beside him. One thing he was sure was that her huge skirt was ballooned near his thigh and she was pressing him tighter against one trunk. Her fingertips grazed over the flesh on his exposed forearm. “What has happened? Let me see.”

As if she could see anything through the netting, he thought sourly. He took his thumb from his mouth in order to speak. “It’s nothing.”

She grabbed his hand with both of her smaller ones. “You have cut yourself.” A thick glob of blood welled from the wound. The cut was not deep enough to be serious but wide enough to bleed freely.

“It’s nothing to worry over,” he grumbled. She ignored him and turned his hand this way and that, examining his thumb while he dodged the brim of her outrageous hat.

“I’m not going to bleed to death, Connie, now let me go.” Temple felt awkward, sprawled on his back among the canvas with Connie hovering over him like some sort of apparition from a child’s dream.

“It could become septic, Temple. Allow me to tend it now.” Authority rang in her voice and it only served to make Temple more annoyed.

“While you see to Mr. Parish, I am going to take a little walk.” Peter climbed down from the wagon seat and ambled off toward a scanty grove of squat pine trees, leaving Temple to fend for himself.

“It is a tiny scratch.” He managed to wrench his hand from Connie’s determined grasp. The fact that she was now calling him Temple and not Mr. Parish did not escape his notice during their tug-of-war.

“I don’t want to win Montague’s endowment because you were too injured to give it your best,” her
smooth voice pronounced from behind the barrier of her netting.

Renewed fury sluiced over Temple. He wanted tò deliver a suitable retort, but her thorny declaration had left him momentarily speechless. A hot tide crept up his face to his hairline.

“Very well, Miss Cadwallender, do your worst,” Temple grated out. He shoved his hand toward her, offering the injured thumb for her to inspect.

“I am pleased to see you are at last being sensible,” she muttered while she searched through a small carpetbag. He had the uncomfortable suspicion she was smiling behind the barrier of cloth. In fact, he could practically hear laughter in her voice. When she had found what she was looking for, the massive hat once again turned in his direction. “Now kindly hold still so I can put some antiseptic on this cut.”

A gust of icy wind blew over them and he actually heard a muffled giggle. But surely it was a trick of the wind; little Connie would not laugh at an injured man.

Would she?

Temple used his free hand to close his knife and slip it inside his trousers. Constance put something related to liquid fire on his thumb.

“Holy blue blazes, Connie!” The stinging liquid made his eyes water. He glanced around for the piece of wood he had been carving when she had descended upon him, but between her ministrations and the antiseptic he had no luck in finding it.

“There now—that should keep your thumb clean and dry.” Constance gathered her skirts and stood up. Temple was stunned to see his hand swathed in white gauze. His thumb was bound to three times its normal
size. Now he looked almost as ridiculous in his bandage as Constance looked in her hat.

“If this bandage is meant to stanch moisture you must be expecting a flood.” Temple climbed to his feet and leaped from the back of the wagon before she had a chance to object and bind him further.

Constance couldn’t imagine why Temple was so annoyed. After all, she had done him a good turn by cleaning the cut. She watched him enter the copse of low shrubs near the pine trees. The sun was high overhead and she was a little warm in her traveling ensemble.

Her eyes swept over the countryside while she gathered the gauze and mechanically popped the cork back in the bottle of antiseptic. Short mossy-green tufts of grass sprouted here and there, but in the deepest ravines and beneath the squat pines, there were actually small patches of snow on the ground. Constance replaced the items in the small box and returned it to her carpetbag. She had climbed halfway over the wagon seat when something caught her eye.

It was a piece of pale pine wood wedged in a flap of canvas on one of her crates. She picked it up and turned it around in her fingers while she looked at it. A most peculiar tightness manifested itself in her middle while she studied the tiny figure in her hand.

It was a young girl with thick plaits trailing down her back. She was dressed in full skirts and a pinafore.

“It’s me,” Constance whispered to herself. It was the very image of the way she had looked when Temple stomped out of her father’s house ten years ago.

The sound of masculine voices drew her head up. Temple and Mr. Hughes appeared at the edge of the bushes. Impulsively, and not really sure why, she
thrust the little carving into her pocket and scrambled back over the seat before they reached the wagon. She was grateful she was wearing her insect bonnet, because she was quite certain that a most unbecoming flush had stained her cheeks.

When the sun had climbed to the center of the sky, and Constance’s stomach had growled noisily several times, Mr. Hughes stopped the wagon in the middle of a small meadow. A sprinkling of hardy wildflowers were blooming near the tough sprigs of grass.

For a moment Constance was struck by a sharp pang of homesickness. She excused herself and went off for a few moments of privacy. She stuck her hand inside her pocket and felt the carving again. She had never taken another person’s belongings before and she wasn’t sure why she had done so now, but when she wrapped her fingers around the small object she felt less homesick.

After relieving herself, Constance made her way toward the wagon. Temple was unloading the large wicker basket Mr. Hughes had brought along. Sunshine caught the pale strands of Temple’s hair and turned it to liquid silver. A hard knot formed in Constance’s stomach while she watched him. The pale collarless shirt strained across the width of his neck and the shoulder seams stretched with each movement.

“Miss Cadwallender, you best come have some of this fried chicken,” Mr. Hughes called out to her.

“Yes, thank you, I will,” Constance replied, trying to swallow her embarrassment, wondering if Mr. Hughes had seen her staring at Temple. She quickened her pace toward the wagon but when she reached it, she hesitated. For some reason, the idea of sitting
down on the bleached fallen tree trunk beside Temple filled her with an odd sort of dread. She saw him glance up at her from under thick lashes while she lingered, unsure and hesitant.

“Miss Cadwallender—” there was a mocking edge to Temple’s voice “—I would not want to win this challenge because you were too weak from hunger to put up a proper effort.” One sun-gilded brow rose above taunting brown eyes while a corner of his mouth curled upward. “Or perhaps you have come to your senses and have decided to concede that I am the better digger. If you leave today, you could be back in New York by week’s end.”

Constance’s anger bloomed anew. Whatever had been wrong with her a moment before, whatever silly notion had caused her to hesitate had faded when Temple’s dare left his mouth.

She stepped over the end of the log that Mr. Hughes was sitting on and plopped down beside him, peeling up the netting to expose her face. She accepted the piece of chicken Mr. Hughes offered and tore off a huge bite with her front teeth while she glared defiantly at Temple. Each time he told her to leave, the more determined she was to stay. She chewed with enthusiasm but the truth was, she couldn’t even taste the food.

“Hungry?” Temple asked with an arrogant tilt of his head. Sunlight made the scar on his cheek gleam stark white against his lean, tanned flesh.

“Starving, Mr. Parish—absolutely starving,” Constance answered around a mouthful of fried chicken.

“Good. To be a proper digger, a man—oh, excuse me—a person must eat well and keep up their
strength.” He grinned and tossed a chicken bone out into the grassy meadow.

“Be assured, Mr. Parish, I am more than up to the task.” Constance swallowed the last bite then tossed her chicken bone alongside the one Temple had thrown.

He chuckled and reached for a chunk of corn bread. “Maybe, but I think you won’t stay. Without C.H. around, I think you will find this task daunting. I expect you will be returning with Mr. Hughes when he brings the first load of supplies.”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes while she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. He was so sure of himself—so arrogant. A thousand tart replies ran through her head but none seemed harsh enough.

“Mr. Parish, I wish you would refrain from calling me that childish pet name,” she heard herself snap.

He stopped nibbling the corn bread and stared at her for a full minute. Then one side of his mouth tilted upward in a boyish expression of repentance. “Childish? You think my name for you is childish? Connie girl, to me you are still a little girl in braids—and you always will be.”

Her cheeks flamed with inner heat. Silence hung between them. The only sound was the warbling of a meadowlark off in the distance. Constance found her fingers curling around the carving secreted deep within her pocket. The unfamiliar knot began to grow in her abdomen again.

“Well, I am not a little girl any longer, Temple,” she said softly.

Temple chuckled and looked away. He took a bite of the corn bread and chewed in silence but Constance could see he was well pleased with himself.

The knot in her middle twisted and churned. She reached up and pulled the netting down over her face, grateful for the opportunity to avoid being seen, and made herself a promise.

Before this expedition came to an end she was going to make Temple Parish acknowledge the fact that she was not a child. And she was going to claim Montague’s prize.

She stood and marched toward the wagon. “Can we be on our way, Mr. Hughes? I am most anxious to reach the site so I can begin digging.”

Her words brought Temple lurching to his feet. He cast one quelling gaze in her direction. Constance stood by the wagon, with her elbows akimbo, watching him toss jars and crocks into the basket.

The look on Temple’s face and the stiff set of Miss Cadwallender’s shoulders brought a low rumble of laughter welling up inside Peter. He glanced back and forth between them and tried to gulp down his humor. They would both skin him alive if he started to laugh right now, he was sure of it.

He shook his head and muttered to himself. “It is going to be a long afternoon, and an interesting one, if I have my guess.”

After hours of riding in the wagon in tense silence, Peter glanced at the western sky. The sun was hanging low and yet Miss Cadwallender had not asked to stop. He had noticed that each bump and sway of the wagon brought a tiny gasp of discomfort from her, but the young miss was determined and strong willed.

After the words she and Parish had exchanged at lunch, he knew she would not ask to halt—no matter what. She would try her best to hide her weariness and
continue for as long as the men wished to travel, just to prove herself to Temple Parish. And then tomorrow she would be all done in and the bounder would have an unfair advantage. The idea didn’t set well with Peter. He pulled up on the long leather reins.

“This looks like a real good place to make camp for the night.” Peter shoved the foot brake in place and swiveled in his seat, ready for Parish’s complaint