Linda Castle (5 page)

“We’re stopping already?” Temple levered himself up and lifted the brim of his hat. He glanced at the surrounding countryside from his snug trough between the crates and trunks. “Isn’t it a little early? We have at least one more hour of good light.”

Peter stared at Temple and tried to keep a straight face. It wasn’t easy, especially since the big man was wedged between two crates, with his back against one and his boots propped up against another. He was practically bent double.

“The horses need rest. So do I,” Peter lied. “We’re setting up camp here.” He jumped down from the wagon and moved toward the head of the team.

Temple shrugged and scooted the hat up to its proper position. “Suit yourself, Hughes.” He dislodged his body from the crevice and stood up. “I could use a little stretch myself.”

Constance tried not to notice when Temple jumped down from the back of the wagon. He extended one leg like a cat who had been curled up too long. She remained in the wagon and watched him from beneath the shelter of her netting while he raised his arms and bent his body into a backward arc. Mesmerized by the glint of the crimson sun on the hard planes of his form, the vision of the boy she remembered merged with the reality of the man he was today.

There was a width to his shoulders and sinewy muscle in his upper thighs that had been only a promise of things to come when he left her father’s brownstone in New York. Now, as the rays of waning sunlight illuminated his chiseled face in a bronze glow, a painful catch manifested itself in her throat.

How could Temple Parish be so heartbreakingly handsome and so absolutely infuriating at the same time?

“Miss Cadwallender?” Peter Hughes’s voice jolted her; she blinked in confusion. She found him staring up at her with his hand extended, waiting patiently to help her from the wagon. Embarrassment sluiced through her.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Once again the insect netting on her hat kept her unbecoming blush from being seen.

“Nothing to apologize for, miss. Give me your hand and I’ll help you down. You might want to take a look around while I set up camp. Just be sure to watch for snakes and bears.”

“You know, Hughes, if you keep coddling Miss Cadwallender, she will be at a loss when you leave us alone out here.”Temple sauntered over and leaned against the side of the wagon. “She will scarcely be able to manage without you.”

Constance tilted her head to look at him, expecting to see his customary scornful smile but instead his brows were furrowed together as if he might actually be worried about her. The very notion nearly made her laugh aloud. It was absurd to even consider that Temple might have a single minute of concern on her behalf.

“I assure you, Mr. Parish, I am quite capable of fending for myself now and I will be able to do so
when Mr. Hughes has returned to Morgan Forks.” Constance swiped some of the trail dust from her coat while she spoke. “While traveling with Papa, I set up camp on more than one occasion.” She expected him to stomp away in a fit of temper, but he continued to lounge against the side of the wagon while he toyed with the large gauze bandage on his thumb.

He was no more than a yard from Constance and a capricious breeze brought a whiff of his distinctive odor to her nostrils. Without conscious thought she tried to analyze—to catalog—the scent. It was part wood and dust mingled with crisp Montana air. It was a man’s smell, different from the way any man at the university ever smelled. It was impossible to name in one word except to say it was all Temple’s scent, a bit wild, a bit reckless and wholly stimulating.

“So, old C.H. drug you to hell and back after I left,” he mumbled under his breath. Constance watched him continue to stare at the earth in front of his boots. She realized it was not a question that he asked of her, but she heard the question hidden in Temple’s soft words.

“After you left, Papa found himself in need of a new assistant. I was the only logical choice.”

Temple’s head snapped up. He speared Constance with the flinty look in his eyes. “Why were you the logical choice?”

Constance started at the sharpness of his question. “I received the same education Papa had given to you. It was natural that I should begin to accompany him when he went looking for scientific relics. After all, there wasn’t anybody else he had been training. He had invested a lot of time in you….” Her words trailed off.

Temple’s brows shot up. “Is that your way of telling me that I took too much of C.H.’s attention? How you must’ve rejoiced when I left.”

The memory of lying in her bed while silent tears streamed down her face came rushing back. Temple’s departure had ripped her tender fourteen-year-old heart in two, but she refused to let him know that she cared so much—then. “I meant it was perfectly natural for Papa to begin taking me with him on all his scientific expeditions, Temple, nothing more.”

“Connie—you may have been given a gentleman’s education by C.H. and all of his colleagues, but taking you to primitive locations around the world was hardly natural. The field is certainly no place for a growing girl—and it is no place for you to be now.” He stared at her with eyes full of ice and contempt. “Go home, Connie. Save us all a lot of trouble and just…go… home.”

If her netting had not been in place Temple would have seen her own brows rising in astonishment at his measured words. “I will not go home. So you may as well quit asking—or rather ordering me to do so.”

He kicked a loose stone with the toe of his boot. It was difficult to put what he was feeling into words. Images of Connie as a child assaulted him each time he looked away from the veiled and swathed form of the determined person before him. “C.H. should’ve taken better care of you—he should have made sure you had an opportunity to be a…” His sentence trailed off.

Constance felt the heat climbing into her face. “A lady? Is that the word you are searching for?” She placed her hands on her hips and waited for his answer. He finally glanced up at her and she saw a new
expression in his face. Eyes that were normally hard and cynical as agate now held something more elusive than the fragrance that wafted around him.

“No, Connie.” He stared straight at her netting and for a moment she wondered if he could see her face. “I was going to say that you should have spent your youth at home. C.H. never should have dragged you across the world looking for bits of bone and broken rocks. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t right for him to send you to do his battles now.”

He gave her one last look, then he turned and walked away. She watched him and wondered why she felt the ridiculous urge to call him back.

Mr. Hughes had ingeniously used the wagon and three pieces of canvas to erect Constance a shelter for the night. He stood back while she examined it.

“Thank you, Mr. Hughes, it is wonderful, but I really could have managed with a bedroll. I have slept in the open many times.”

“It was nothing, miss. I want you to be comfortable.” He continued to test the strength of the canvas while he talked. Constance saw him smile each time she gave her approval to some small detail.

“The wind comes up of an evening, miss, and it turns cold, even this time of year. I wouldn’t want you to take a chill.”

“You are very considerate.” She smiled and pushed her spectacles up with one finger.

Peter found himself staring at Miss Cadwallender in amazement. She had removed her netting and the fulllength duster that she had worn over her traveling dress. The glow of the campfire cast a rosy blush across her smooth cheeks and the thick lustrous hair
piled carelessly on top of her head. The small rectangular spectacles reflected crimson flames each time she moved her head to look at the simple lean-to.

“I have had to erect all manner of contrivances for shelter while traveling with my father, but this is really most remarkable.”

Constance smiled and touched the canvas in an appreciative manner and he felt a burst of pride. At that moment Temple walked around the canvas lean-to.

“Top-notch, Hughes. I couldn’t have done better myself. It reminds me of the camp I set up last year in the mountains of South America.”

Miss Cadwallender stiffened and Peter saw the expression in her eyes change. He moved back into the shadows and busied himself while the two glared at each other.

Constance felt her good mood evaporate while she glared at Temple. The South American trip he mentioned had been only last summer and she had read more about it than she ever would have wished while the newspapers followed his progress. “Would that have been the camp where the American heiress tried to snare you in her butterfly net?” She knew her voice was a touch too sweet and a bit too sharp to be sincere—and she saw by the way Temple’s brow shot up that he knew it also.

A wicked grin began to spread across his face and she regretted mentioning it.

“Constance Honoria” I do believe you have been reading
on dits
in the New York society columns. What would your father say about your choice of reading material?” Temple wrapped his long fingers around the suspenders hooked to the buttons on the waistband of his trousers. His cocky grin grew wider
while he watched her. She wished she could simply disappear, but Temple’s gaze held her as firmly as any leprechaun in a child’s fable.

Temple couldn’t help but grin at Connie. While he watched, her eyes widened behind her glasses, but suddenly she inhaled deeply and pulled herself up straighter than an aspen’s trunk.

“Well, Mr. Parish—” her voice was composed even if her hands were trembling “—I imagine he would say it was the one place neither of us ever expected to find your name printed.”

The smile faded from Temple’s face and his mouth became a thin line. His craggy jaw hardened while a knot formed in her belly.

“Touché.” Temple inclined his head and released his grip on his suspenders. “That barb certainly found its mark.”

Too late Constance realized time had not dulled the raw pain he felt about his background. She regretted her comment almost as much as her reference to his South American trip, but she could not apologize.

He took a step toward her. She forced herself to meet his gaze without backing up so much as an inch, but in order to do that she had to bend her head back in a most uncomfortable position.

“You should become some deserving professor’s wife. Then only one man would have to suffer the rough side of your tongue.”

She stared unblinking into his flinty eyes. She pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose and tried to tell herself that he could not be that tall and intimidating.

“Actually, Mr. Parish, only one man’s suffering the rough side of my tongue, as you put it.” Constance
narrowed her gaze and watched him clamp his lips into a hard taut line.

Peter stood at the corner of the shelter and watched the couple staring at each other like a pair of bighorn rams during the rut. Neither one was willing to give an inch. But while they glared at each other, Peter sensed a power between them. The air felt charged, as if a great booming storm were about to come sweeping down from Canada.

Then he knew.

Temple Parish and Constance Cadwallender cared for each other. But if either one of them knew it, or admitted it to themselves, they were not about to admit it to the other. Peter caught himself smiling while he shook his head in amazement.

It was going to be a long and interesting summer in Montana’s badlands. And whether they knew it or not, the young competitors had a lot more at stake than a bunch of bones.

A
n unfamiliar sound brought Constance awake with a start. She saw nothing but darkness inside the leanto. She turned her head and discovered that the flap to her enclosure was open a few inches on one side. Through the small slit she caught a glimpse of the camp. The campfire that had been a golden blaze when she dozed off was now nothing more than a circle of red embers. A crescent spring moon bathed everything in a dusky lavender wash and provided just enough light for her to make out nearby shapes.

She sat up and drew her knees up to her chin, while she pulled down her thin cotton gown tight around her ankles. The sounds of nocturnal creatures kept the night from being completely silent.

In New York, she frequently crept downstairs and into the secluded garden behind the brownstone just to stare at the night sky. But this Montana night was different. It was silent and compelling and seductive. Constance loved the silence, and living in the city she rarely enjoyed it. Only on expeditions to faraway and primitive places did she ever truly find the kind of peace she craved.

She crawled to the front of her tent, wanting to stare at the night, wishing to allow the almost silent night to seep into her soul.

As she emerged from the tent she saw two motionless forms positioned on either side of the smoldering fire. The steady rattle of Mr. Hughes’s snores brought a smile to her lips. For this brief span of time she could enjoy a moment of solitude, a short respite from the tug-of-war that was going on between her and Temple.

Constance reached for her day coat but hesitated just short of touching it. She had grown tired of the bulky garments and insect netting that covered her face. She relished the freedom of movement she experienced while not wearing her boned corset under her sturdy dress. A capricious breeze fluttered over her cheeks and she realized how much she missed the feel of the sun and wind on her face. She drew in a breath and tasted the wilderness on her tongue.

Temple Parish might not believe it of her, but Constance loved this wild outdoor life as much as any man ever could. When she was in the field, in North America or some foreign exotic country, her senses sprang to life. She found herself rising before dawn from sheer excitement, and the possibility of discovery made it difficult for her to sleep at night. Right now she was eager for the dawn—anxious for the dig—and more than ready to show Temple Parish she was no longer the little girl he captured in his wooden carving.

Constance heard peeps, croaks and other feral sounds she preferred not to identify as she crept from her shelter. She was sensible enough not to stray too far from camp, but she did walk to the back side of the lean-to and look out across the unbroken expanse of black velvet prairie.

She raised her chin toward the heavens. Her unbound hair tickled the lower part of her spine through the thin fabric of her gown. The ebony sky invited her. to reach toward it, and she found herself doing that, as if she could actually touch the soft texture and allow a handful of stars to trickle through her fingers like droplets of water.

Constance squinted her eyes and for a moment she thought she could pick out the constellation of Orion. Without her spectacles she could not be sure, but she preferred to believe it all the same.

The sound of wood scraping against wood brought her spinning around in surprise. She drew in a breath and held herself rigid while her eyes swept the crimson and ebony embers that marked camp. Now only one dark shape remained near the dying bed of coals.

Creeping forward, Constance searched for the source of the sound. She squinted her eyes and made out a looming shape in the half-light. When she heard a whispered string of descriptive expletives, she knew it was Temple fumbling around in the back of the wagon.

The sound of another crate being shoved across the wooden bottom of the wagon grated through the night and temporarily silenced some of the creatures around her but Mr. Hughes continued snoring.

“What is he up to?” she whispered to herself.

Constance hid beside her tent and watched while the dusky gray outline of Temple’s body shifted and moved against the night. He stood up straight and she saw him drag his hand through his hair in obvious frustration. The sound of his deep-voiced cursing wafted to her from among the mounds of canvas and
crates. Then his tall form bent over and she heard the sound of him rummaging through folds of canvas.

“He is looking for the carving.” While Constance watched him searching through the back of the wagon, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It gave her a silly surge of satisfaction to know Temple was looking for the very thing she had already found. After his surly attitude and continued disdain for her skills, she was happy to have a moment of pleasure—no matter how small or trivial.

Perhaps it was an omen, she thought. She had found the carving that he was searching for in vain. She was positive she would find the bones Mr. Montague was interested in.

Temple stood up once again and she fancied that he looked in her direction. She held her breath almost feeling the heat of his eyes upon her. But after a minute of peering into the darkness, he went back to his search and she released a tense breath. She crept around her lean-to and tiptoed back inside with a smile curving her lips.

A mournful howl silenced all the other night sounds for a moment and in that short measure of time, Constance heard the sound of flesh meeting wood. And then she heard Temple mutter a string of salty oaths.

She was chuckling softly to herself when she turned over and snuggled down inside her blankets.

The first thing Temple did when he woke was check his bruised shin. He had stumbled against one of Connie’s damned trunks while he was looking for that silly carving last night. It annoyed him that he couldn’t find it—it annoyed him that he had made it in the first place. He squatted by the morning campfire and pulled
down his pant leg, but the ridiculous mound of gauze caught on his bootlaces. He lifted his hand, stringing shredded gauze like a spider’s web.

“Damn foolish thing.” He ripped the remaining bandage from his thumb. “I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “I am going to ignore Miss Constance Honoria Cadwallender. If she has no more sense than to stay, then so be it. Filbert Montague’s dinosaur bones are the only thing I’m interested in.” Temple wadded the bandage up and tossed it into the fire.

It had occurred to Temple during his sleepless night, that C.H. had sent Connie in his stead because Temple had always looked out for her. The old fox knew Temple was the better digger—everybody knew Temple was the best digger. But C.H. was shrewd and ruthless. Perhaps he was counting on Temple having a soft place in his heart for little Connie. And perhaps C.H. and Dandridge had hoped that he would allow sentimentality to get in the way and enable them to claim the prize.

“Well, it isn’t going to work, C.H.” He swore.

Did his old mentor really believe that his brotherly feelings for Connie would prevent him from claiming Montague’s endowment? If so, then he was in for a big surprise. Temple could ignore little Connie Cadwallender. He was going to find the bones and get away from Connie and the Montana territory just as. quickly as the train could take him back to New York. And when he accepted the endowment for Ashmont, then every professor at Dandridge University would finally have to admit Temple Parish had made it to the top on his skills—and not in the way they claimed.

It was midday when Peter pointed to the great gouge in the earth.

“This is the starting point of the Devil’s Spur.” He inclined his head toward the cleft in the earth. Temple levered himself up from his spot between the trunks so he could get a good look.

The earth was treeless and barren here, the weathered soil a dusty gray. Erosion and wind had cut fantastic hollows and gullies in the ground, and there to his right lay a fissure. Temple allowed his gaze to wander up the cut. As far as he could see, there was a great laceration that grew progressively wider and deeper.

“Is this where the bones were found?” Temple asked.

“At the far end,” Peter said without turning around or allowing the team to slow. “The Morgans have a mine near here. One of their hands had been doing some blasting nearby and found a big chunk of earth with little fish bones and such in it.”

“I am so glad they contacted the university,” Connie said from behind her netting.

Until that moment, Temple had almost forgotten she was there. Now his anger and frustration washed over him again. He slid back into the small space between the trunks and crates. He didn’t want to talk to her— didn’t want to think about her. It made him itchy and mad all at the same time—and all he cared about was getting Montague’s prize.

Temple pulled his hat low over his forehead and stared out the back of the wagon. The day wore on while he watched the Devil’s Spur grow in size. By afternoon the sides of the canyon were at least thirty feet deep and the middle of the cut was flat and wide enough to set up camp in.

The slice in the earth must have been caused by
some cataclysmic event aeons past. In the long deep trough grew bitterroot, and small shrubs. On either side of the flat expanse in the middle, the earth rose in great striated walls. The afternoon shadows made the impressive rent look somewhat ominous.

Constance was excited and eager to begin digging. The ribbons of color reminded her of a child’s lollipop. She rose from the wagon seat and allowed her eyes to sweep over the primal landscape.

She had discarded the netting earlier since there were few biting insects. The cold spring breeze fluttered over her bare cheeks while her mind raced ahead, plotting the most logical location of bones.

“It is truly remarkable, Mr. Hughes,” she said.

“Yep.” Peter stared at the deep gash. “This is on the Flying B Ranch but you are a long way from the house. Lake Nowhere is just over that rise.”

“Lake Nowhere?” Constance frowned. “What a strange name.”

Peter shrugged. “You are in the middle of nowhere, miss. Like I said, the owner of the Flying B has some mines near here and they do fish in the lake from time to time, but other than a few cowboys checking for strays or taking supplies to the mine, people tend to shy away from this section of the badlands.”

“What do they mine?” Constance was truly interested in this otherworldly landscape.

“Manganese—lead. There used to be some gold but I think the veins have played out.”

“This is a wonderful opportunity to document and catalog the area.” Constance sat down. “I will be spending the first few weeks I am here sketching the terrain.”

“Sketching?” Temple sat bolt upright so fast he
raked his ribs on a trunk latch. It smarted almost as much as his pride. He had sworn he would not be drawn into a conversation with Connie, but her ridiculous words could not go by unquestioned. “You are planning to sketch?” The question tumbled out of his mouth while he managed to stand up.

“Yes. I have been responsible for the sketches of all Papa’s expeditions. I see no reason why I should not treat this dig like all the others.” She frowned up at Temple. “Is there some reason why you find it so unusual?” She felt herself growing more defensive as he stared at her with wide eyes.

He shook his head and laughed. “Connie, you sketch as much as you want. I am grabbing a shovel and finding those bones as soon as camp is set up. While I’m headed back to New York you can do all the pretty watercolors you like.” He vaulted over the side of the wagon and walked away chuckling. “I’ll think of you when I accept Mr. Montague’s check.”

“You are very sure of yourself, Temple.” Constance stood up and hitched up her skirt so she could step onto the’ big wheel of the wagon. She perched there for a moment while she watched the man who continued to patronize and belittle her at every turn.

“I have good reason to be sure of myself.” He paused long enough to spear her with a glance. “I have worked hard—and enjoyed some degree of success over the past ten years. This dig is no different. I intend to get the bones and be out of here before you are even settled in.” He turned his back on her and started to walk away.

She hopped down to the ground with a swish of the heavy material. “Then by all means don’t let me detain
you.” She shouted at his wide back. “Which side of the gorge do you wish to set your camp on?”

Temple lurched to a stop. He turned to Constance with a blank expression on his face. His hat was shoved back on his head, tawny hair jutting from under the brim. He squinted his dark brown eyes against the bright sunlight.

“What do you mean, ‘which side?” He crossed his arms at his chest. Sinewy bands of muscle bunched beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his pale shirt.

He looked strong, virile and too handsome. It just wasn’t fair that he could be so good-looking and yet be so maddening. Constance shook her head to banish the image of him as man. She had to focus on him as ruthless competitor.

“Under the circumstances we cannot pitch our tents cheek-to-jowl. We need space between us.” She swept her hand forward to indicate the wide rift of earth. “We have to be organized in such a way that there can be no question, no dispute, over which of us is the clear winner of Mr. Montague’s endowment.” She shoved her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose. “Surely you agree.”

After a moment of contemplative silence, he cleared his throat and one brow lifted. He dragged the hat off his head and raked his hand through thick hair that glistened in the sunlight.

“All right, I see your point. How do you propose we split up the supplies Mr. Montague sent?”

She was not having much success ignoring the way the afternoon rays made his eyes gleam like polished agates.

“In half would be the most logical method,” she managed to say.

Temple swallowed hard. He tried to banish the image of danger that Connie might encounter if she were alone. “Where do you intend to camp?” he asked, while he cursed himself for breaking his vow to stop feeling responsible.

“You pick which side of the gorge you prefer, then I will be free to choose what is left.” Constance offered reasonably.