Linda Castle (11 page)

H
owdy. I’m Bessie Morgan and this is my middle son, Holt.” Bessie dismounted with the grace of a woman who had spent years straddling a saddle, wearing men’s trousers and making her own decisions.

Just as Temple feared, she was very unconventional. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Morgan and glanced at Holt, but the new arrival was staring at Connie as if he might eat her up in one bite. Temple stepped forward and placed his body in Holt’s line of vision as if his bulk could shield Connie from the newcomers’ obvious interest. “I am Temple Parish.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Parish.” Holt smiled absently, touched the brim of his hat and stepped down from the brown gelding. The reins slipped from his hand to the ground while he yanked off his hat. He took two long determined steps in Constance’s direction before Temple could react.

“And you must be Miss Cad wallender.” Holt’s voice hummed with interest. “We—I—have heard a lot about you. The newspapers wrote about what you are doin’ for the university—but golldang, miss, I didn’t have no idea you’d be so…so…pretty.”

The word hung in the air above Temple’s head like a sharpened sword. He stood there, torn between his need to deny his own reaction to her transformed appearance and the unreasoning urge to somehow silence Holt Morgan.

“I am Constance Cadwallender.” Roses bloomed in her cheeks under Holt’s scrutiny. “I haven’t read the papers yet—so I don’t know what they have said about me.”

“They don’t do you justice,” Holt said while he rotated his hat in his hands. “Not by a long shot.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” Constance smiled shyly and looked over the upper edge of her spectacles.

Temple grated his teeth. Connie was a grown woman, damn—but she was a grown woman. If this cowboy chose to give her compliments, it was none of his business. After all, she had been around men most of her life. But the timid way she allowed her lovely long lashes to flutter over her brown eyes told Temple that she had never been around a man with wide lean shoulders and narrow hips who stared at her as if she were a Grecian goddess.

Some part of Temple that had been dormant suddenly sprang to life. He felt his feet moving before his brain even registered the intent. He found himself wedging his body between Constance and Holt even while he told himself he was acting like a jealous ass.

He wanted to remove the spectacles from her nose. He wanted to be the man telling her she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. But if she had noticed his reaction to her she was doing a good job of hiding it while she smiled at Holt over Temple’s rigid shoulder.

“Miss Cadwallender, Ma and I brought a box lunch. Would—you, that is—aw golldang, would you like to
eat?” Holt sidestepped and left Temple a least a yard out of the conversation. “Miss, it would be a pleasure if you’d let me sit by you.”

Connie’s eyes widened for a moment but she remained composed. “I would be honored, Mr. Morgan.

“I wish I had brought a blanket to put on the ground—for you to sit on. You look so fine, it would be a shame for you to get dirt on your purty dress.” Holt’s gaze never left Connie’s face.

She smiled and a thousand fists pummeled Temple’s heart. He should have been the one to comment on her appearance. Lord knew he was far more aware of her transformation than this cowboy could ever be.

Constance’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I have a blanket in my tent. I’ll just be a minute.” She glanced at Temple and his heart leaped into his throat, but before he could get his feet or his voice to work, she disappeared inside the tent. He was left standing there with a thousand unsaid compliments choking him.

“Well now, wasn’t that a neighborly thing to do?” Peter said behind Temple. “Bringing a picnic lunch and all?”

Temple wheeled around. Both Peter Hughes and Mrs. Morgan were staring at him with the hint of a grin playing about their lips.

“Most neighborly.” Temple swallowed the strange mixture of feelings. He realized he was acting like a dolt. “Mrs. Morgan, forgive my rudeness. I am pleased to meet you.” He offered her his hand. He was surprised by the firmness of her grip when she shook it. “And I want to thank you for allowing us to dig on your property. It was a generous thing for you to do.”

“I don’t know how generous it was, Mr. Parish. Peter promised me it would do our bid for statehood and Morgan Forks a heap of good if you find anything.” She speared him with wise green eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d be spendin’ all your time socializin—not with the amount of money that is at stake, would you?”

The reminder of the endowment shrouded Temple in a cold gray gloom. “No, I would not. Connie and I have both been—uh—staying busy. It seems we are both equally determined to secure the prize.”

Temple found his gaze sliding to the opening of Constance’s tent where Holt waited impatiently. Bessie took a step nearer.

“A little healthy competition is good for the soul—if you don’t let it consume you, of course. After lunch perhaps you will consent to show me where you are diggin’. I’d really like to get a look at one of those bones Peter has been talkin’ about—if you have found anything.”

“I would be happy to take both you and Holt on a tour.” Temple glanced up to see if Holt had heard the emphasis placed on his name.

“Maybe Miss Cadwallender could show me around.” Holt tilted his head and beamed at Temple from beneath the wide-brimmed hat.

Temple was about to offer a dozen reasons why she could not show him around when she stepped out of the tent with a bright red-and-black-plaid blanket over her arm.

“I would be happy to show you where I plan on digging, Mr. Morgan.”

Temple grated his teeth together.

“Let me help you with that, Miss Cadwallender.”
Holt swept the blanket from her grip and slid his arm around her waist.

The contact was casual, yet Temple felt his brows knitting together. For the life of him he could not seem to control the rampant tide of feelings.

“Peter, don’t stand around grinnin’. Grab that basket off the back of my horse. I’ll walk down with Mr. Parish.”

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your ability to give orders, Bessie,” Peter observed dryly. “All this talking has made me work up an appetite. How about you, Temple? You sure look like you could take a bite outta somebody.” Peter had the good grace to turn away before he broke into hearty peals of laughter.

“If you were just twenty years younger,” Temple threatened under his breath, but then a sobering thought hit him. If Peter were a young buck then he would probably be panting after Connie just like Holt Morgan was.

It was not a comforting thought.

Butterflies had taken up residence in Constance’s middle. She wasn’t sure if it was due to Temple’s scowl or because Holt Morgan had looped his arm around her waist. She was not comfortable with such attention. He looked at her in a way that was not unpleasant, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect on her that looking at Temple did. At the bottom of the path, Holt stopped and turned around to face her.

“Here, let me help you.” Wide hands locked around her waist and before she could think of any response, she was airborne and then deposited gently on her feet just beyond the rock that had lain in her path. “Why, you don’t weigh as much as a feather, Miss Constance. I could carry you around all day.”

Constance didn’t remember ever being picked up by anyone other than her father. It was a singular experience. A surprised giggle escaped her lips.

Something hot and raw coursed through Temple. If Bessie Morgan had not been walking on his arm he would have sprinted down the rocky path and demanded an explanation for Holt Morgan’s actions.

The realization rocked him.

What would he say? Would he demand to know if his intentions were
honorable?
Holt seized yet another opportunity to put his hands around Connie’s tiny waist when he lifted her over a small scatter of boulders. She had been climbing over them without assistance since her arrival—or couldn’t Holt figure that out?

Didn’t the man know how foolish he looked? Temple wondered. But even while he discounted every action, scorned every deed, he quickened his pace in order to stay right behind the young couple. He couldn’t let her out of his sight with this—this—interloper.

By the time they reached the bottom of the flat ravine a wide slice of shade lay along the western floor, cast by the deep sides of the canyon wall. In that cool wedge, Holt unfolded the red-and-black-plaid blanket and spread it out over the small pebbles and short stiff grass.

“There now, Miss Cadwallender.” Holt took her hand and guided her to the blanket. “You just make yourself comfortable. Ma and I had Cook pack up a nice lunch. You are probably plumb sick of camp food.”

“That was extremely thoughtful of you—and your mother. Thank you.” No man had ever treated Constance
as if she were going to break, but Holt Morgan’s attention seemed to indicate he thought she would. He stood above her and watched her every action until she had settled herself and smoothed the serge skirt. With a detached and clinical eye, she allowed her gaze to skim over Holt—strictly for scientific purposes, of course.

He had wide muscular shoulders and arms that looked strong enough to carry her all day, as he had suggested. His hair was lighter than Temple’s, a little shorter and burnished with red highlights. When he smiled at her, deep dimples appeared in his tanned cheeks to complement the spring green color of his eyes. He and Temple were of a similar height and build; health and vigor emanated from both. Holt Morgan was a handsome man, but looking at him did not cause a knot to form in her middle.

Constance looked away frowning. This simply made no sense at all. Why did she feel as if her knees were turning liquid when she looked at Temple? How could her cheeks flood with heat each time she saw him smile?

Unless she were developing feelings for Temple.

The thought made Constance shudder involuntarily. She had made a pledge to her father and a promise to herself. And she knew the risk of falling victim to the well-publicized charms of Temple Parish.

The arrival of Temple and Bessie Morgan interrupted Constance’s thoughts. She glanced up and saw Mr. Hughes following a few paces behind them, a huge wicker basket in his arms. There was a flurry of activity while the newcomers found a place to sit on the large wool blanket. Constance allowed herself one surreptitious glance at Temple.

The result was immediate.

Her pulse quickened, her mouth dried out and her stomach fluttered as if a field of butterflies had taken wing. Despair folded over her. How could she have allowed herself to become another conquest in a long line of simpering females? She nearly moaned aloud in disappointment.

It wasn’t as if she had not known what kind of a charming cad Temple could be. Lord knew, the newspapers carried just as many tidbits about his assignations as they did about his flamboyant scientific career. How could she have been so silly?

While the lunch basket was opened and Bessie dolloped food onto metal plates, Constance mulled over her predicament. Finally she came to a decision. Just because she had been smitten by Temple Parish, she did not have to lose her head, or her heart to him. She was not a green girl. In fact, by New York standards she was pushing spinsterhood to a dangerous limit. After all, she was the daughter of C. H. Cadwallender, and surely she was capable of withstanding the dubious enchantment of Temple Parish. She would simply have to exercise a little
control.

Temple chewed and swallowed mechanically. He knew he was eating fried chicken, but he could have been chewing sawdust for all the pleasure it gave him. His eyes and ears were trained on Constance and Holt Morgan. The more Temple watched them, the more his appetite deserted him.

“Tell me, Mr. Parish, what do you think of our pendin’ statehood?” Bessie Morgan asked abruptly. She sipped her lemonade and watched Temple over the rim of her cup.

“What?” Temple blinked and turned his attention toward the widow.

“I was askin’ what you thought about Montana becomin’ a state,” Bessie explained.

“It’s a big hunk of country,” Temple said noncommittally. He couldn’t think about politics, or geography—not with Holt Morgan leering at Connie. Hell, the man was practically drooling over her bosom.

“We should be the forty-first state by the time you and Miss Cadwallender find that critter you’re lookin’ for,” Bessie continued, as if Temple were really paying attention.

He didn’t bother to try and formulate an answer. He couldn’t think about pleasant conversation—not while Connie was smiling at Holt.

“How about you, Miss Cadwallender? Do you follow politics?” Bessie had evidently given up on Temple and was resigned to try and get a conversation going in another area.

“Please, Mrs. Morgan, call me Constance,” Connie suggested. “I spend most of my time cataloging my father’s recent finds—so I am afraid I have little time for other pursuits.”

“Constance—what a purty name—for a purty lady.” Holt poured some lemonade into a cup and offered it to her. He seemed even less inclined than Temple to discuss Montana’s possible statehood.

“This has been a lovely lunch. I can’t remember when I last went on a picnic.” Constance pushed her glasses up on her nose. She smiled shyly at Holt.

An inexplicable fire flared to life in Temple’s gut while a raw throbbing ache grew in his chest. Connie’s voice had turned to warmed honey. It sluiced through him and left a hot trail of longing behind.

“How did a little thing like you start digging in the dirt?” Holt asked politely.

As Holt stared into Constance’s eyes, Temple had the urge to grab him by the nape of the neck and bodily eject him from the circle of people on the plaid blanket. Just who did Holt Morgan think he was?

“My mother died when I was an infant, so I spent a great deal of time with my father” Constance replied. “I simply grew up going on expeditions. I find it fascinating.”

“Miss Constance, you are a wonder.” Undisguised admiration rang in Holt’s voice.

“And you, Mr. Parish?” Mrs. Morgan lifted her brows and looked at Temple. “How did you come to this?”