Linda Castle (9 page)

“Parson, I have been out there on a regular basis. There isn’t any patty-fingers going on. You have my word upon that.”

“You don’t say,” the preacher said thoughtfully.

“I do say. She is a right smart woman, that Miss Cadwallender. You should be ashamed of yourself for thinking otherwise. The only thing that little lady is
interested in is scientific exploration. Why, she told me so herself.” Peter glanced down at the domeshaped oilskin-covered article sitting between him and the pickle barrel. “And as much as I would like to stand around here and jaw with you, I have to deliver those newspapers and this—other thing—to Miss Cadwallender.”

Peter reached down and picked up the object in his arms, then he strode out the front door of the mercantile to put it in the back of the wagon. He had to nudge his way back through the curious crowd in order to retrieve the bundled newspapers.

Bessie Morgan followed Peter to the wagon. “What I want to know, Peter, is when I can come out and see the bones you claimed was going to make me famous.”

Peter set the bundled papers on the seat and turned to look at the owner of the Flying B. “Don’t know that they have actually found any bones yet.” He rubbed his chin and allowed his appreciative gaze to skim over Bessie. Her thick hair, once fiery red, now shot with gray, hung in one heavy braid over her shoulder. Her eyes were the color of new grass. “But when they do, you mark my words, you and the Flying B will be famous all right.”

“I hope you are right, Peter. I’d hate to think I was letting those easterners dig up my land for nothing.” She tilted her head and narrowed her gaze at Peter. “And I won’t forget you are the one that talked me into this.”

“Those bones will put Morgan Forks on the map, I am sure of it. Tell me, Bessie, are you busy today?” Peter asked with a flirty grin.

“Not any busier than usual. Why?” She tugged the leather vest into place over her sturdy plaid shirt.

“I’m headed out there now. Why don’t you ride with me? We can visit on the way. It would help me pass the time.” Peter grinned wider.

Bessie shoved back her hat until it fell from her head. The strings beneath her chin kept it resting at the nape of her slender neck. She squinted skeptically, and flecks of gold in the green irises winked at Peter.

“And me camping for the night with you would get the preacher’s tongue wagging even more. No, I don’t think so.”

Peter winked at her. He had been trying, without success, to finagle a kiss from her for years. His repeated failure only made the chase more fun and his determination more steadfast.

“I’ll tell you what I will do, Peter,” Bessie continued. “Holt and I will ride over to the gorge tomorrow afternoon. You ought to be there by then, even in this bone-buster you call a wagon. That’ll give you time to notify Miss Cadwallender that she’s going to have company. Any woman, whether they are eastern-bred or not, likes a little warning before people come dropping by.”

“Whatever you say, Bessie.” Peter’s mind was already moving ahead, wondering how Temple Parish would react to all the new stories in the newspapers and Miss Cadwal lender’s other gift. After he saw what was hidden under the oilskin cover, Peter was fairly certain Miss Cad wallen der’s reaction to visitors would likely pale in comparison to Temple Parish’s reaction.

T
emple leaned on the handle of his shovel. Against his better judgment he glanced back across at Connie’s camp. No matter how much he willed himself to ignore her, it just wasn’t possible. Even though they had managed to avoid speaking to each other he was too aware of her presence across the empty expanse of canyon that separated them.

A small dust devil swirled through the ravine and up over the edge of the canyon toward her location. She, as usual, was perched on an outcrop of rock, sketching. Her hat went flying from her head and spiraled upward for a second, caught in the vortex. Temple felt a bit like that hat, spiraling helplessly out of control.

She dropped her sketch pad and scampered after it—as much as her voluminous skirt would allow her to scamper, that is. Temple smiled in spite of himself.

The damnable costume that covered her body was part of the reason he couldn’t keep his mind on his own dig. Each time he closed his eyes, the image of Connie’s wet clothing plastered to her very womanly curves flashed through his mind.

Temple quit dawdling and rammed the nose of the shovel in the dirt. He picked up another spadeful of earth and tossed it aside. The sound of a bird drew his eyes heavenward. It was the first sound he had heard today, other than the scraping of his own shovel. It grated on his nerves, this damned quiet, and that, he told himself, had to be the reason he was so edgy— not Miss Constance Cad wallender.

While he stood there trying to convince himself of the obvious lie, a large cloud of dust appeared on the far horizon. He squinted at it for a full minute before he climbed out of the gorge. With his hat shading his eyes, he watched the approach of the dusky nimbus.

Peter Hughes was coming.

A smile curved his lips. Now he would be able to let the world know that he was already on the trail of a promising find—before Connie even finished sketching. The papers would-do their usual amount of embellishing and by the time Filbert Montague read the article, it would appear that Temple had found several unknown species and was on his way back.

Temple glanced across the meadow at Connie. For some reason the thought that he was so far ahead of her in their quest didn’t fill him with nearly as much happiness as he expected it would, but he pushed the notion aside. It had been years since he had been bothered by anything that remotely resembled a conscience. And he certainly didn’t intend to start growing a new one now with his future—and a bit of his tarnished past—hanging in the balance.

From the distance of the far-off dust cloud, Temple knew it would be several hours before Hughes arrived. He slapped at the thick layer of dirt coating his trousers. A puff of dust went up his nostrils and a sneeze
exploded from him. When he rubbed his hand over his face, grit caked on his jaws and scratched along the inside of his palm.

“It is definitely time to clean up.” Temple entered his tent and dug out a change of clean clothes, a cake of strong soap and his shaving kit. He glanced over at Connie’s camp once more. She was bent over her sketch pad with her oversize hat in place as an umbrella.

Would Connie notice he was not digging? Would she notice the change in his appearance? he wondered. Then he shook the silly ideas from his head and marched off toward the lake. He was doing this for Hughes’s benefit and his own comfort, and most assuredly not in some vain attempt to impress little Connie.

Temple inhaled and dived under the cool water. His breath left him in one shuddering exhale as he slid through the long stems of underwater grass. The morning sun had yet to warm the depths of the lake but he enjoyed the feeling of the silken water sluicing over his naked limbs. He had not realized how stiff he had become, sleeping on the hard narrow cot each night, shoveling the packed earth all day. He kicked himself to the surface and floated motionless on his back, allowing the tension and strain to ebb from his muscles.

He opened one eye just enough to squint up at the periwinkle sky. The sun was quickly blazing a trail across the eastern sky. Temple swam to the shore and grabbed the hard milled soap he had brought. He stood up in the shallow water, and felt mud squeeze up between his toes. He rubbed the soap between his palms and raised a thick lather, then he slathered it across
his face. With the ease of practice he swiped the razor over his jaws while he used his reflection in the lake as a somewhat ripply mirror. After he had removed the growth of beard he scrubbed at both his face and hair. When he was fairly covered in foam, he turned and dived back into the deeper water to rinse.

Constance flattened her body beside the large boulder and watched Temple cavorting in the lake like a sleek river otter. She shoved her spectacles up and angled her head to get a better view. Droplets of water shimmered on his hard lean form each time he surfaced. Time seemed to halt when he broke the water and her gaze held him for a heart-catching moment before he dived back under.

While she watched him a strange sort of heat began to uncoil in her middle. She swallowed hard and focused her gaze on Temple’s sinewy form.

And then she knew.

“It’s him. Watching him brings about a debilitating weakness of my limbs and a strange catch to my throat,” Constance whispered to herself in wonder.

She was not sure which discovery was more remarkable, the fact that Temple had a body equal to any Greek statue she had ever admired while traveling with her father, or finally realizing that simply looking at him made her hot, weak and all fluttery inside. Her symptoms were not unlike those her father had experienced when bitten by a particularly virulent insect two years ago in Egypt. Except that in a strange manner they were not altogether unpleasant.

She turned and walked back toward her camp, totally absorbed in thought about the mystery that she had just discovered. “I must take some time and explore
this further,” she muttered to herself. Her newest breakthrough had obliterated any shame she might have had about spying on Temple or finding him naked. In fact, while she pondered his effect on her senses, she managed to shove both those concerns completely from her mind.

Temple spent another half hour swimming before he climbed out onto the pebble-strewed bank. He hobbled quickly to his clean clothes and sat on a flat smooth stone to dress. While he was in the lake he had had the strangest notion that he was being watched but when he’d scanned the area he’d seen nothing— heard nothing. Still, he found himself glancing over his shoulder from time to time, unable to shake the feeling of prying eyes upon him.

While he jerked his suspenders over his fresh white shirt, Temple mentally composed the message he wanted to send with Peter. Over the years he had learned the importance of what the papers printed.

“’Temple Parish is hot on the trail of a new dinosaur….” He yanked on his socks and boots. “No… Temple Parish, world-renowned explorer, will unearth… No. Still not right.” He stuffed his pants down inside the tall leather boots and laced them. “Temple Parish is confident he will be claiming Filbert Montague’s endowment in record time.”

Temple smiled. Day after tomorrow the New York papers should be carrying the news of his latest find.

“Wonder what C.H. and the faculty of Dandridge will say about that?” He snorted. But while he was pondering their reactions, the image of Connie ripped through his mind. Temple shook his wet head as if he could physically remove her from his thoughts. He
reminded himself that this dig would secure his future. If he handled this right, he would no longer be forced to scrounge up investors for his expeditions. But Connie’s image remained firmly lodged at the back of his mind.

Temple climbed the gentle rise near the gorge and saw with no small measure of annoyance that Peter Hughes had not driven the team to his side of the canyon. The cloud of dust was wending its way toward Connie’s camp on the opposite side while Temple negotiated the last rock-strewed hillock toward the canyon.

“Damn that old fool—what is he up to?” Now if Temple wanted to speak to Hughes, he would have to walk across the ravine, or take a chance that Hughes would come by tomorrow.

Indecision gripped him.

He didn’t want to have to see Connie. He glanced over at her tent. Each time he looked at her the image of clinging wet clothes and eyes no longer shielded by spectacles threatened to consume him. Temple realized with a jolt that this struggle was beginning to occupy more of his time than the quest to find bones.

“Temple Parish, you have become a besotted fool.” But he started making his way down the ledge so he could cross the gully and enter Connie’s camp while the curse was still fresh on his lips.

Constance tugged the brim of her hat down and tried to pretend she was not watching Temple walk into her camp. The same extraordinary symptoms were rushing through her with each step he took, but this time she was determined to analyze them and discover why looking at him caused such profound reactions.

Her father had made sure she thought like a scientist, behaved in an analytical and detached manner at all times, but each time she gazed at Temple a kind of hunger seemed to grow inside of her.

Her curious gaze started at the top of his bare head. The shiny mass was still a tiny bit damp. It lay smooth and flat against his head, making it appear darker than it was. Tawny curls that had completely dried now brushed his nape and tickled the lobes of his ears above the neck of his collarless white shirt. Constance narrowed her eyes and adjusted her spectacles.

There really was nothing unusual about Temple’s hair, she decided. It was quite ordinary, except for the million tiny sparkles the morning sun deposited in each silky gold strand.

She shook herself and swallowed. “Clinical, Constance, you must remain clinical,” she reminded herself.

Her eyes traveled down his face. His cheeks were ruddy, freshly shaved, full of good health. She focused on the slightly asymmetrical bump on the bridge of his nose. Constance knew it had been broken the night before her father brought him home, but she had never noticed how it gave his face a rugged manly look. Or how the raised white scar on his cheek kept the length of his thick lashes from making him look soft or effeminate. Temple was blessed—or cursed—with the face of a rake, an adventurer, a seducer of women.

The bright sun caused him to squint against its rays until the flesh at the corners of his eyes crinkled handsomely. Constance forced herself to examine the shadows that capered beneath his deep-set mahogany eyes.

A tiny shiver coursed through her body. Whether
his face was perfectly normal or not, it elicited a decidedly profound effect from her body.

Just as Professor Eisley had shown her, Constance placed her index finger at the juncture of her jaw. Her pulse was accelerated as if she had been taking a brisk constitutional instead of observing Temple from beneath the protective camouflage of her hat.

“Astonishing,” she gasped under her breath. “Dr. Barton would be most intrigued by my reactions.” With a new sense of purpose Constance focused on Temple’s body.

She told herself it was all for science as she examined his chest. Smooth skin where he had left the top four buttons of his shirt undone was exposed to both her view and the sun. His braces hugged the width of his muscular shoulders and skimmed over the fiat trim planes of his belly where they attached to the waist of his trousers by buttons on either side.

As if on a quest of their own purpose, her eyes traveled lower still. It took little deductive reasoning to see why he used suspenders to keep his trousers up. Nothing but hard lean muscle rode those hips and yet the bulk of his thighs bunched and contracted with each step he took over the uneven rocky terrain.

Her gaze snapped back to Temple’s face and slowly surveyed every inch of him between forehead and boots once again as if to confirm her original findings.

‘Oh, my.” Constance was shocked to hear the breathy timbre of her own voice. Her mouth had gone dry and her pulse was racing. She couldn’t seem to think clearly, but watching him was satisfying to her in a way that defied explanation. There was nothing clinical, detached or remote about her reaction to Temple Parish—nothing at all.

Suddenly, as if she had been prodded by an invisible hand, she glanced down at her own clothing. For the first time in her memory she found herself wishing that she looked
different.
Constance had no idea why she should suddenly become susceptible to feminine vanity, but she surely did in the space of time it took for her to really look at Temple.

The sound of horses plodding and the jingle of harness drew her head around. Her cheeks filled with heat when she realized that Temple had walked right by her and was waiting for Mr. Hughes.

“Where is Miss Cadwallender?” Mr. Hughes’s voice rang out as he maneuvered the team closer. She tugged the brim of her hat lower over her face and stumbled out into the open, embarrassed by both her recent thoughts and her appearance.

“I am here, Mr. Hughes. How nice of you to come out to see us.” She tried not to notice Temple’s newly discovered attributes while she walked beyond him toward the wagon.

Mr. Hughes smiled and jumped down from the seat. “I have some things for you, Miss Cadwallender.” He walked to the back of the buckboard and removed a large stack of newspaper that was tightly bound with brown twine.

“For me?” Constance wondered who would be sending her newspapers. “Are they from my father?” She could not imagine anybody else sending her anything.

“No—I don’t think so, miss.” Mr. Hughes brushed by her as he carried the papers to the front of her tent. He stooped over and set them on the ground. “I think the conductor said they were sent by a Professor Pollock.”

“Pollock? Professor Andrew Pollock?” Temple’s indignant bark made Constance start. She turned and looked at him. This time his lovely deep-set eyes glowed like fiery agates. “Why in thunder would Professor Pollock be sending Connie newspapers?”

Peter Hughes stared at Temple with a stone-faced expression, then he shrugged. “I couldn’t rightly say, but maybe there is something in them he would like her to read.” A taunting grin flickered across Peter’s lips.