Linda Castle (8 page)

“Oh—I’ve got one.” She leaped to her feet. Herbert Pollock was completely forgotten while her attention was riveted on the fish thrashing at the end of her line.

Temple stood up and reached out for the pole only to have his hand unceremoniously slapped away by her smaller one.

“I know how to do this, Connie. Let me help you,” he offered stiffly.

“I know how to do this as well.” She raised one brow as if the gesture would emphasize her abilities. “Now stop interfering.” She looked back at the churning water and focused on the fish.

“Connie, it is a big one—don’t be silly, let me land him for you.”

She did not look at Temple while she continued to direct the fish’s course. “I am perfectly capable of landing my own fish, thank you.” Her glasses had slid to the end of her nose again. She managed to shove them up with one finger while she precariously balanced the pole in her left hand, while maneuvering her skirt.

The fish leaped from the water leaving a spray of
jewel-like droplets in his efforts to pull free of the hook. Temple was sure the line would break. “He’s a fighter, Connie, let me take the pole—” He paced beside her anxiously. He could hardly restrain himself from snatching the pole from her hands.

“No,” she snapped before he could finish his request. “Now stand back before you foul my line.” She held the pole aloft and stepped around Temple. When he turned, he found himself trapped between the water and her damnable full skirt. She grabbed the trailing line in her free hand and tried to steer past him again when the trout suddenly changed directions.

“Careful, Connie. Give him some play,” Temple advised. The fish swam to and fro while Temple walked beside her, barking directions with each step he took.

“Stop ordering me about, Temple. I am quite proficient at this—if you would just kindly get out of my way.” She turned away, refusing to listen to him.

Temple felt a tug on his boot and looked down. His foot had nearly become tangled in the end of Connie’s line. It occurred to him that she would find some way of blaming the situation on him so he decided to act before that could happen. “Hold still, let me get free here first.”

“What? What are you saying?” She cast one exasperated glance at him but the fish jumped, tugging on the pole.

Water churned while the fish began to fight in earnest. Connie sidestepped down the bank, while Temple tried to disengage himself from the line, but the loop continued to shrink around his boot top.

“Connie, give me the pole, I’ll get him to shore,” he offered. He stretched his arm toward her, shifting
his center of gravity, compromising his balance in his attempt to reach the pole.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Temple. Just grab the dratted fish when I bring him up to you.” Connie deftly transferred the pole to her other hand. He closed his fingers around empty air.

Temple was certain the fish would break free, but to his astonishment, she neatly guided the great trout nearer the bank.

“Good work, Connie girl.” Temple felt an unexpected burst of pride, followed by a renewed sense of frustration because she would not let him help her. “Just a little closer—a—little—closer.”

Temple leaned toward the line but the fish made one last desperate run at freedom. Before he knew what was happening, the fish, or perhaps it was Connie, had somehow managed to tighten the line around his boot tops into a noose. He felt himself slipping on the pebbled shore.

“Connie, wait a minute, I seem to be—”

Temple’s words were cut off by a splash. Constance turned to see his shapeless hat floating on the surface of the lake. Concentric circles rippled outward. Suddenly he came up sputtering, cursing a steady stream of obscenities. He shook water from his head like a great wet dog and glared at her.

“Temple, what on earth are you doing? You are going to make me lose my fish with all your foolishness,” Constance said. “Do stop capering around and assist me.”

He glowered at her through a clump of wet green moss clinging to his forehead. “I am
not
capering around. I think you are intentionally trying to drown me.” He dragged his palm down his face to remove
some of the water and moss. A small piece remained stuck on the bridge of his nose.

Constance rolled her eyes heavenward and continued to play the fish. “Don’t be utterly ridiculous. Why on earth would I want to drown you?”

She took a step out into the water. The moisture quickly climbed up her full skirt and soaked the fabric until it clung suggestively to her thighs.

“You know, Temple, I think you have the mistaken notion that I am your enemy.”

Temple’s gaze kept skimming over the wet outline of her upper legs while his gut tightened painfully. He tried to stand but his boots kept slipping in the soft mire of the lake bottom.

“Aren’t you my enemy?” he asked, finally managing to lurch into a standing position.

“Of course not. We are competitors—there is a difference.” She glanced at him over the top of her glasses. “You don’t seriously believe I wish to injure you in some way so you will be unable to dig for bones?” she inquired while she played the fish. “Do you?”

Hearing her put the concept into words made Temple feel like a dolt. “Don’t be silly, Connie, just let me have the damned pole,” He reached out but she jerked away from him. In the process of thwarting his attempt to take the pole she threw herself off balance. She disappeared in a splash of water that twinkled like jewels in the sunlight.

Temple reached beneath the water and grabbed her shoulders. He pulled her to the surface with one hand. Her hat was drooping down around her face. Water dripped from her spectacles, but she still had a firm grip on the pole.

“I hope you are satisfied, Temple Parish. Now we are both wet.”

He started to give her a sharp retort but realized it was useless to try to reason with her. She took off her hat and neatly snagged the fat trout inside the saturated brim.

“There we are, my fine fellow. It’s off to the frying pan for you.” She turned and frowned at Temple over her water-spotted lenses. “If you are quite through frolicking and accusing me of trying to disable you, I
could
use some help.” She stumbled in the mud and landed on her backside in the water again. The last pin holding her wet hair slipped out. Sodden strands came tumbling down upon her shoulders in a shimmering mass.

Temple could only stare at her in disbelief. He raised his palms heavenward in a gesture of frustrated supplication.

“What do you think I have been trying to do? I have offered to help, several times in fact, but you insist on doing everything by yourself.” He dragged his hand down his face and sighed.

She shook her head as if to deny his words. A little spray of water from the ends of her hair hit him in one eye.

“I am quite sure I don’t know
what
you have been doing—or what you are talking about.” With one last indignant toss of her head, she regained her feet and trudged back toward the shore. “I am a reasonable person and would
never
refuse a legitimate offer of help.”

Temple bit back a scathing reply about how reasonable she was. He tried to take a step but the line was still tangled up around his ankles. His backside ended
up in the muck again. He was cursing steadily under his breath while he reached down and grasped the line with one hand. Too late he realized what was going to happen when he jerked. The pole snapped taut, pulling against Connie’s unyielding grip. She disappeared beneath the water. She came up sputtering, with her hair hanging in her face like wet strings, blinking like a little owl finding itself in the bright sunshine.

“Oh drat,” she gasped. “I seem to have lost my spectacles in the lake.”

Temple managed to untangle himself, grasp Connie’s hand and trudge to the shore. When he was at last on dry land, he made the mistake of really looking at her.

Her clothing was plastered to her flesh. She was not wearing a corset The yellow material clung to her attributes. Temple swallowed hard and wished he were the one with the impaired vision.

His eyes skimmed over the fabric, rendered translucent from the water, while a sizable knot formed in his belly. The image of her in braids and pinafore evaporated forever—shattered by one afternoon of fishing and calamity.

He swallowed hard while his perception of her tilted, shifted and transformed.

He would never, could never think of her as a child again.

“Can you make it back to camp?” he managed to choke out.

Connie picked up the excess of her skirt and wrung a stream of water from it. “You’ll have to guide me, Temple—I don’t recall my way well enough to risk it without my spectacles.” She squinted her eyes and looked toward the river. “Did we get the fish?”

“Yes, we got the fish.” The trout flopped inside Connie’s big hat, lying at the edge of the water.

She smiled brightly. As Temple’s breath lodged in his throat he allowed himself to acknowledge how lovely she was without her glasses.

“If you will take my hand and show me the way to camp I will fix us dinner.”

Temple nodded dumbly. He couldn’t keep his disobedient eyes from her alluring form. Her waist nipped in and the clinging weight of the sodden skirt only served to emphasize the feminine flare of her hips and the outline of her long slender legs. The last thing he wanted to do was take hold of her hand and walk beside her. Each minute in her company was becoming torture.

“What about your spectacles?”

“I always pack an extra pair,” she said airily. “It seems like the most unlikely accidents happen to me on these expeditions, so I have learned to plan for such possibilities.”

“Somehow I am not surprised,” Temple said with a sigh. He gulped down his dread and took hold of her small hand. The sensation that it somehow belonged in his nearly made him reel but he stoically placed one foot in front of the other and led her back to her camp.

“Have you got the fire going yet?” Constance’s voice floated from behind the blanket she had had Temple stretch between her tent and the top of one tall crate. The contraption had created a makeshift dressing screen for her. Temple opened his mouth to answer her question but a sodden garment come flying over the top of the blanket and wrapped around his
face with a wet slap. His reply was trapped by material that carried the scent of fish and lake water.

“Can you catch my chemise?” she asked. “I don’t want it landing in the dirt.”

Temple was already peeling the clammy chemise off his face. “I’d be happy to.” He grumbled while he tossed it over one of the tent lines to dry.

“Oh, thank you. As soon as I get into some fresh clothes, I’ll find my spare glasses and fix us dinner.” There was a moment of silence, then a blur of cold sodden yellow cloth engulfed his entire head. He was blinded and swathed in Connie’s dripping dress.

“Temple, can you hang my dress out to dry?”

He stripped the saturated material from his shoulders and neck. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I can’t think of anything.”

If she heard the irritation in his voice, she didn’t let it show. She stepped from behind the makeshift dressing screen in a fresh calico and smiled in his general direction in a sort of vague unfocused way. He realized she really couldn’t see him—at least not clearly.

The dress had tiny buttons up the front and she was only half finished doing them up. All her concentration seemed to be focused on that task as she cautiously picked her way through the maze of crates.

Temple tried not to notice the soft bulge of her breasts while she pulled the material closed and fastened each closure, but of course it was a pointless attempt.

How could she have hidden such a figure in that shapeless costume? How in God’s name had he failed to notice?

Connie disappeared back inside her tent. Whe-Temple
heard a shout of glee he knew she had found her spectacles. She appeared at the entrance of her tent with the glasses, identical in shape and size to the others, now in place on her nose.

She blinked a couple of times as if just now fully aware of his presence. “My goodness, Temple, you should change clothes. You are still dripping wet.” Connie shook her head. “What have you been doing—just sitting there? You will catch your death of cold and then blame it on me.”

Temple didn’t bother to answer as he slung the wet, yellow dress over a corner of her outside tent pole. There was no use in trying to explain anything to her. But as he stomped off toward his own camp he found himself wondering who was crazier—because no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t ignore her appeal.

Constance paused to watch Temple kicking rocks as he walked across the meadow to his own camp. His voice rose and fell as if he were talking to someone. He threw his hands up in the air and gestured wildly and she realized that he was talking to himself. One moment he was playing in the water like a child and the next he was lost in solitary conversation, cursing a blue streak.

“I will simply never understand men.” She grabbed the frying pan and prodded the hot coals into a blaze. “Not in a million years.” But she found herself looking up once again, just to see the way the fabric of his shirt and trousers molded to his body as he walked. And she realized she didn’t understand herself anymore either.

C
onstance packed away the last pan and firmly closed the lid on the crate. Leaving out cooking utensils and food invited vermin and she had no desire to wake up staring a bear in the face. Contrary to what Temple seemed to think, she did know about such things and took proper precautions.

A bird called somewhere out in the distance and she realized how relaxed she was. It was odd, but out here above the gully where Temple had started digging a massive hole she was almost able to forget he was her. rival. In fact, when she looked at him now, with the breeze fluttering through his tawny hair and the kerosene lantern casting youthful shadows over his face, it was easy to forget he had been gone from her life for ten years.

‘Temple?”

“Hmm?” He had been staring toward the rim of the canyon.

“Why did you ask about Herbert Pollock today?”

His head came up and his brows pinched together in a frown. Finally he shrugged and grinned, but Constance could see lingering tension in the set of his jaw.
“I just wondered what he had accomplished in the past ten years.”

“Why?”

Temple leaned back on the crate he was using for a chair and studied his inquisitor. In this respect Connie had not changed. She was still as tenacious as a bull terrier when she had an idea in her head. If only her physical appearance had not altered so drastically.

“Why, Temple?” she asked again.

“I have my reasons.” He laced his hands behind his head.

“Reasons you don’t wish to share?” She wasn’t going to let the subject drop.

Temple brought his hands down, and sat up. He seemed to stiffen under her steady gaze.

“Not now, Connie—perhaps when this dig is over—but now not.”

She shrugged off his refusal and sat down on a large crate. She leaned forward and rested her chin in her palms as if to get a better view of the meadow below. She had the notion that the half-mile-wide expanse was an arena where she and Temple would be forced to oppose each other.

“What have you done for the past ten years besides break the hearts of women all over the world, Temple?”

Temple’s brows arched in surprise at the question. The smooth seductive timbre of her voice had escaped his notice, until now.

“I am a heartbreaker?” He chuckled uncomfortably and looked away. “Where did you get such a notion?”

“I have kept up with you through the newspapers, of course. What was it really like—being on your
own? Was it everything you hoped it would be when you left Papa—and me?”

His gaze returned to her face. She was still staring at him in that open honest way that unmanned him. Temple felt all the air rush from his lungs.

“What do you mean, Connie?”

“Has life been as exciting as you believed it would be? You left so quickly and never found the time to send a Christmas card or birthday greeting all these years. I assume you have been on one grand adventure after another.”

She convicted him with her guileless eyes. He did indeed feel as if he had deserted her that night. But it was foolish—the decision to go had not been his to make. And the reasons he had not contacted her were too complicated to put into words.

How could he explain to her the loneliness and hunger he felt the first few years? How could he put into words his utter disappointment when he discovered that a lovely face usually hid an empty head? There were no words to describe how he missed an atmosphere of intellectual stimulation.

“You are right, Connie, my life has been one long adventure.” His voice lacked enthusiasm.

“The newspapers have printed accounts of your exploits over the years. You have made a name for yourself and become very successful. I know how much that meant to you.”

Temple felt a strange tug on his heart when she looked into his eyes. What would she say if he told her his only interest had been C.H.’s opinion of his skills? What would she say if he told her he was almost stone broke, and his future hinged on winning Montague’s endowment?

“You’ve read the newspapers—what do you think?” Temple answered evasively. He prayed Connie would not see through him with her warm brown eyes.

She smiled innocently and tilted her head a bit.

His gut tightened.

“I’m glad to know you have done well, Temple. It will make things easier”

Temple narrowed his eyes and he felt a strange hollow void growing in his middle. “What do you mean?”

“When I find the bones and Mr. Montague awards the endowment to Dandridge, I will feel better now. It is important for me to know you will be all right—that you are successful and this will not matter so very much to you.”

His anger flared like a lightning-ignited brush fire. She had unknowingly cut him to the quick. He couldn’t tell her how those words bruised him without admitting what a disappointment the past ten years had been. So he took the only course left to a man who has only his pride to wear as armor against the world—he lashed out’ at her.

He stood and glared down at her. “Connie, I am going to win that prize. Then C.H. and all his pompous colleagues will finally have to—have to…”

“Have to what?” she asked.

Temple silently cursed himself. He didn’t want Connie to know what had happened. That had been the reason he left without a fuss—to keep all of it secret.

“They will have to admit that my methods have merit,” he finally bit out.

Constance sat a little straighter. Her eyes were no
longer soft and inquisitive. A new determination filled her face. “I see. Well, be that as it may, I can’t let you win. I made Papa a promise to uphold the family honor. I promised him I would do my very best for Dandridge University.” She brought her chin up an inch. “And I have never broken a promise.” She stood and picked up one of the kerosene lanterns. “If you will excuse me, I need to get some sleep. I want to get an early start tomorrow.” She turned and walked into her tent.

Temple sat there feeling a mixture of emotions while he watched her silhouette inside the canvas. One part of him admired her for her determination, while another part of him felt nothing but dread. He could not allow anything to get in the way of his goal.

“I am going to win Montague’s endowment,” he. said loud enough for her to hear. “I have to,” he added in a whisper.

He picked up his lantern and started back to his own camp. With each step he cursed himself for allowing Connie to get under his skin—again.

“How did the journalists find out Honoria went in my place?” C.H. crumpled the newspaper and flung it on the dust-covered hall table, narrowly missing Livingstone in the process. The bird hopped onto a tall wrought-iron stand and stared at the professor’s guest with a baleful eye.

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Professor Andrew Pollock smoothed the thin strands of hair over his bald pate.’ “Just what are you implying?” His voice cracked slightly, reminding C.H. of Andrew’s son, Herbert. Andrew opened and closed his palm several times before he thrust his hand into the pocket of his
sweater. The moment C.H. saw Andrew’s nervous gesture, he knew exactly where the gossip mill had received its latest grist.

Memories of what happened ten years ago came marching through his mind. “Andrew, I know how you feel about Temple, but subjecting Honoria and the university to this kind of yellow journalism is unconscionable.”

Andrew paled a little but he held his ground. “A little publicity is good for the university. Temple Parish is a bounder—I won’t rest until he is exposed for the fraud and schemer that he is.”

“Bounder, bounder, awrk,” Livingstone mimicked.

Professor Pollock started slightly and moved a few inches away from the perch where Livingstone stepped back and forth.

Livingstone flapped his wings and flew onto C.H.’s shoulder. “Temple Parish is a bounder…awrk.” The bird chirped while he paced back and forth—doing a little dance—along C.H.’s shoulder.

“Yes, that’s right—a bounder and a pirate,” Andrew Pollock agreed with the mynah.

“Andrew, you are having a conversation with a bird,” C.H. observed dryly.

Andrew looked up, his eyes widened. A stain of red entered his cheeks. “Yes, well, quite so.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “What were we discussing?”

C.H. thumped across the room and picked up the discarded newspaper. His leg itched inside the cast, and he was damned uncomfortable—and more than a little annoyed with Andrew Pollock for stirring up the local press.

“We were discussing Temple,” C.H. said. “You
shouldn’t involve my daughter or the university in your effort to publicly discredit Temple.”

Professor Pollock stared at C.H. in disbelief. “It amazes me, C.H., after all that happened you are still ready to defend that pirate.”

“Pirate,” chimed Livingstone. He tilted his head to focus one beady black eye on his human perch. “Pirate, Temple, awrk.”

“Be quiet bird,” scolded C.H. He turned his attention back to his colleague.

“I am not defending him. He is a rogue, we all know that, but you and I both know none of the missing artifacts were ever found in his possession. You never should have threatened to contact the newspapers—it forced him to make a quick decision back then.”

Andrew speared C.H. with a milky-blue gaze. “If he wasn’t behind the thefts ten years ago, then who was? Everyone else who had access to that room was either on staff or family, including your daughter and my son. And if Temple Parish was innocent then why did he leave so easily?”

C.H. stared at Andrew and leaned heavily on his cane. He had asked himself the same questions a hundred times. As usual he had-no answers. Temple Parish, the orphan from the streets, was the most likely suspect. But a part of C.H. still refused to believe the boy he loved like a son would betray him by stealing from the university. “I don’t know,” C.H. mumbled while he shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

“Well, I know. He didn’t even bother to defend himself before he stormed out of your house. Are those the actions of an innocent?”

C.H. well remembered the harsh words he and Temple
had exchanged that night—words he could not call back or forgive.

“There were other reasons he left my house,” C.H. challenged. In truth it had been Temple’s stiff-necked pride that had allowed no other options.

“That is neither here nor there. The young scamp was quick enough to leave when the threat of exposure loomed over his head. You must agree or you wouldn’t have sent Honoria to contest him.” Andrew pointed out.

C.H.’s head snapped up and he swallowed hard. He had been very upset when he saw Temple’s comments printed in the newspaper. “I admit I did get my hackles up over his disparaging remarks. He always was an arrogant scoundrel.” C.H. could barely control the tickle of a smile that played at his lips. One of the things he admired about Temple was his fearless nature, and many other things he had never admitted to the lad.

“Arrogant? He is an ingrate—a bounder.” Andrew began to pace the floor. His steps raised little motes of dust. They floated in the shaft of light coming through the tall narrow window of C.H.’s office.

“Temple is a pirate,” Livingstone squawked. “Bounder, ingrate, awrk.”

“Do be quiet, bird.” C.H. turned to stare at the beady black eye scrutinizing him from his perch on C.H.’s shoulder.

“Really, C.H., why don’t you get rid of that noisy fowl?” Andrew asked.

“I wish I could, but he is Honoria’s pet.” C.H. retrieved another seed from the dish. “I wish I had asked Honoria to make other arrangements for this
confounded bird. His incessant chatter is playing hob with my nerves.”

“Then send the annoying beast to her. Let him entertain her with his senseless prattle!” Andrew snapped.

“Send him to Honoria?,” C.H. muttered absently while he paced the length of the small office. “Send him to Montana to keep Honoria company?” C.H. looked at Livingstone. “That is a capital idea, Andrew, just capital.” He reached out one finger and stroked the top of Livingstone’s soft ebony feathers and the bright yellow wattles. “How would you like to go visit Honoria and the pirate, bird?”

“Temple is a pirate,” squawked Livingstone. “Awrk, bounder, ingrate, awrk.”

“For once, Andrew, I think I am in complete agreement with you,” C.H. said with a chuckle.

Peter sat in the chair beside the cracker barrel and listened to the citizens of Morgan Forks comment on the newspapers he had just brought from the train station. Most of the womenfolk from the surrounding ranches and outlying spreads had come in to buy their supplies. Even one of the small mine owners was standing nearby, listening while pretending not to.

It tickled him to see how much commotion Miss Cad wallender’s presence was causing. Half the town was outraged that a woman would consider doing what she was doing. The other half—who coincidentally were the women—thought it was about time that a strong-willed female took a role in the academic and scientific world. Miss Cadwallender had stirred up so much interest the topic of Montana’s pending statehood was hardly being mentioned at all lately. Tempers
were flaring, opinions were flying and Peter was happy as a pig in a deep wallow. Some excitement had finally come to the sleepy town of Morgan Forks.

“It simply isn’t proper” the wizened preacher pro nounced.

Peter grinned and waited for an opposing comment He didn’t have to wait long before a familiar voice cut in. “Parson, I’d like for you to tell me what’s not proper about it?” Bessie Morgan asked. Her spurs rang out on the wooden floor when she stepped forward and stared at the minister with a look cool and hard as jade.

“Surely, Sister Morgan, you can see where the impropriety is. Camping out there—alone—it just isn’t proper.” The minister’s words were firm but he backed up a step in the face of Bessie’s unrelenting scowl.

Peter stood and cleared his throat. The crowd shifted and turned toward him, ready for a new view. “Miss Cadwallender is about the most proper lady I have ever seen. Heck, she wouldn’t even allow that scalawag Parish to set up his camp on the same side of the canyon.” That piece of information went through the crowd and brought a murmur of approval and a few chuckles. Peter stared at the pinched-faced preacher, silently daring him to say more against the moral fabric of Miss Cadwallender.