Linda Castle (13 page)

“Miss Cadwallender, what are you doing out here?” Peter pulled harder on the reins. The wagon clattered to a lumbering stop.

“I have been at the other end of the canyon. I waited in the bottom for a while, but then I decided I would follow your wagon trail back to my camp—it made the walking easier, even if it was a bit longer.”

“I see.” He didn’t see, of course, but he didn’t want to sound ignorant.

“May I ride with you?” she asked.

“Pardon my manners, miss, I should’ve offered.” Peter wrapped the reins around the foot brake and leaned across the seat so he could grab her outstretched hand. She climbed up and flopped on the hard wooden seat with a weary sigh.

“I have some fresh supplies, and more newspapers for you that came in on the train.” He forced himself to look away from the long slender legs ending in the tops of tall laced-up boots.

“Good, I do look forward to reading a bit in the evenings by my fire. And I—I need your help.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. Up to this moment he had never heard Miss Cadwallender ask for anybody’s help about anything. A prickly feeling of premonition crawled up his spine. “I’d be happy to help. What can I do for you?”

She pulled the hat off her head. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. High color stained her cheeks. “I want to move my camp.”

“I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

She cleared her throat. “I—I—want to move my camp—to this end of the Devil’s Spur. I have found where I want to dig, but it is too far to walk twice a day. And I’d like to get moved before nightfall.”

Peter gathered the reins and the team moved forward. There had been a tone of determination in Miss Cadwallender’s words that required no more discussion about her decision. She had made up her mind, that was plain enough to see, but a nagging question crowded the edge of Peter’s mind.

“What does Mr. Parish think about this idea—if you don’t mind me asking?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I just wondered what he said when you mentioned your idea.”

“He didn’t say anything because I have not discussed it with him.” Her brows bunched together at the middle. A tiny furrow appeared above the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Hughes, as I told you in the beginning, Temple Parish can be unorthodox in his methods. It is important that I don’t lose sight of my goal. I feel my theory can best be tested at this end of the canyon—far away from Temple’s dig.”

Constance did not tell Mr. Hughes the rest of her reason for wanting to move. Quiet contemplation while she hiked had finally made her realize that she was skirting disaster by remaining near Temple. He
affected
her. And given her lack of experience she was no match for him. The wisest thing she could do would be to move away from him—far away before circumstance spun out of control.

“Then I better get this team moving so we can get your camp set up before dark.” Peter gave her a sidelong glance, but he didn’t ask any more questions.

Temple yanked the suspenders up onto his shoulders. A long twilight swim had allowed him to clear his head and gather his thoughts. Now he knew exactly what he was going to do—and why.

His preoccupation with Connie had cost him enough time. If he intended to find the bones and collect Montague’s prize, and by God he did, then he had no more time to waste on sentimental foolishness.

Tomorrow he was going to pack up his bedroll and a few basic supplies and move to this end of the canyon. If he worked from sunup to dark each day, then he could not help but find some bones. He was determined to unearth the prize and be back in New York within two weeks. Temple glanced up at the twilight sky and realized he was walking near Connie’s camp. He abruptly changed direction, taking a different path down into the gorge and across the flat to his own camp. The last thing he needed or wanted was to see Connie and have to explain what he planned to do.

“It is time to stop thinking about her and start thinking about myself.”

C
onstance released a sigh of contentment. The campfire Mr. Hughes had built before he left cast a comforting glow over her newly erected tent. From her current camp she looked out at the unfamiliar purple and gray evening landscape, and the shadows dancing over the treeless earth.

Now she was truly alone. Her first night in her new camp—her first night away from Temple. Now he and the temptation he represented were several miles away up the cut. Her only distractions were Livingstone and the stack of fresh papers from home.

With her hands wrapped around a reassuring cup of warm tea, she entered her tent and surveyed her home. It was too large, just as Temple accused, but it was well stocked with everything she needed close at hand.

She perched on the edge of her narrow cot and picked up one of the newspapers Mr. Hughes had left. The headlines referred to New York politics and a terrible fire that had swept through another tenement.

Constance turned the pages several times before she found mention of her or Temple. She set the cup on the dirt floor of her tent and read the article.

Mr. Montague’s offer to reward the digger apart from the endowment was the main topic of the piece. There was little mention of what she or Temple hoped to find—or why. Constance wondered if the public had already tired of hearing about the quest. She had learned at an early age how important it was for any institution of higher learning to be popular. Publicity brought in students, which in turn brought in money for projects such as this dig. It was vital for Dandridge to keep its name in the public eye.

Constance retrieved the cup and took a sip of warm tea. Worry tickled the corners of her mind. The longer it took for her to find the bones and return to New York, the less impact it would have for the university.

“Or for me,” she muttered. If she was going to benefit from the cascade of interest the find would bring, she needed to hurry.

“All I have to do is beat Temple to the prize” she mumbled.

All?
a voice inside her head questioned. To speak of the deed was simple, but the doing was a bit more complicated. In spite of all his annoying faults, Temple was good—perhaps the best digger around, and Constance was bright enough to know it.

“Temple is a pirate,” Livingstone squawked as though he could read her thoughts.

Constance frowned at the ebony feathers reflecting the lantern light. “He is a talented pirate, and a man like Temple should not be underestimated.”

She rose from the cot and walked to Livingstone’s cage. Constance wrapped a shawl around the wire to keep the talkative bird warm through the night—and to silence him. “Now be quiet and get some sleep.”

After tugging off her boots she slipped out of her
trousers and shirt. The thin fabric of her gown settled over her body with a whisper of sound. She tied the tent flap tightly from the inside and blew out the lantern.

She needed a good night’s sleep—there was no time to waste.

The morning wind whispered through the canyon like a lover’s call. Constance stared up at the overcast sky of dawn. The blue-gray bowl was cloudless, but the color put her in mind of a storm. She sniffed and the attar of rain floated to her on the first morning breeze. The usual flocks of birds were absent from the Montana sky.

“Livingstone, my fine friend, you are going to have to stay inside in case a storm does blow up while I am off digging.”

The bird ruffled his feathers and glared at her as if he understood the notion of his confinement. While she chided herself for attaching human qualities to the mynah, she secured the flaps from the outside of her tent. Then she filled a canteen with water from one of the barrels Mr. Hughes had left and gathered the rest of her supplies. When Constance was sure she had all of her equipment, she started examining the strip of color in the canyon side once again.

At her first site, the canyon walls had risen twenty or thirty feet, but here at the point of the canyon only about four feet of canyon wall separated the rim from the bottom of the ravine. The only disadvantage was the fact that on this end there were no natural stairs. The grade was steep and treacherous and it took her complete concentration to descend into the gorge.

She made her way carefully to the point of the huge
pie-shaped wedge of earth. She was not more than fifty yards from the mouth of her tent, but she was six to seven feet below the rim of the canyon on which she was camped, when a dark bank of clouds began to gather.

‘Today I will find out if I have any real talent for this work.” She took a deep breath to fortify her courage and began to search the canyon walls. And while the morning sun tried to burn off the scudding clouds, Constance took a pick and began to knock away centuries of dirt and soil.

Temple grabbed an empty gunnysack and shoved some leftover biscuits and a slab of bacon into the opening. He never allowed himself a single glance toward Connie’s camp. He told himself it was because he did not wish to explain why he was going to the far end of the cut, but he knew there were other reasons. The simple truth was that he had become a coward. His cowardice was born of his growing awareness of Connie. Temple could not deny his reaction to her but neither could he control it. Like it or not, he wanted her.

But on the heels of that sobering admission, he had to come to grips with the fact that he could not allow himself to risk his future because of his attraction to her.

Peter Hughes had mentioned in his vague I’vegot-a-secret way that he had been to Connie’s camp before he arrived at Temple’s last night. Temple had been able to resist the temptation to pry information from him for the simple reason he did not want to slip up and let Hughes know he was relocating this morning. It was enough to know that Peter had seen Connie,
that she was fine, she had fresh supplies and Peter would be back in two days to check on her. That was as far as he was going to allow his concern for her to extend.

He had bones to dig up—and a past to overcome. And God willing, he was going to begin doing both today. But if that was true, why did he have a lump in his throat and a pain in his gut when he started walking down the meadow away from Connie?

Temple shoved the question to the back of his mind. Then he shifted the weight of the shovel, bedroll and gunnysack full of supplies higher on his shoulder and trudged off. He had started to take along a rain slicker, but his stubborn nature wouldn’t let him. If he did that then he would be admitting that Peter was right, and he was loath to do that. Still, he glanced at the early-morning sky in apprehension within a matter of minutes. The air was thick and heavy.

“It is not going to rain,” Temple muttered to himself. “It is
not
going to rain.” Temple challenged the heavens as if he could hold back the storm with the strength of his own willpower.

He looked away from the sky and focused on other matters. As much as Peter Hughes had annoyed him with his sly glances and secret smiles, Temple had at least been able to get him to take the new dispatches for Montague and Ashmont. Temple doubted he could do much to quell the present gossip, but some news about his progress would make the people at Ashmont happier—and give the wagging tongues at Dandridge something fresh to focus on besides his past.

Sweat beaded beneath the band on Temple’s hat while he hiked. The sun, which had been playing hideand-seek with him all morning, now vanished behind
a dense gray veil. He quickened his pace, determined to get to the end of the canyon and set up his temporary camp. He placed one boot in front of the other with dogged determination and forced himself to ignore the ominous black thunderhead rolling toward him from the north.

The sound of metal striking stone rang out. He frowned and climbed up the rocky incline to get a better view of the landscape—and find out who was in the canyon. Holt had spoken of the mines. Perhaps they were near here—perhaps it was Morgan himself. When Temple reached the top, he turned and scanned the area.

His breath caught in his throat.

At the very end of the cut, at the narrow tip where the two steep sides met, was an unexpected sight

“Connie!” Amazement rang in his words.

How had she beaten him here? How had she known he was coming?

Anger and suspicion seeped into his mind. Her cunning and perseverance shocked him. He had underestimated her drive, and possibly the extent she would go to in order to receive the endowment. As he stared at her, he began to wonder if she had been observing him, spying on him all the time he had assumed she was sketching.

‘That little vixen will not stop me,” Temple grumbled.

As if in agreement with his angry vow, a deep boom of thunder rolled across the prairie and echoed through the canyon. It shook the earth through the bottoms of Temple’s boots. Even though he was seething with suspicion, a thousand worries about Connie’s safety vibrated through him with the ominous sound.

She stopped digging, as if she felt his concerned eyes upon her back. Across the narrow space that now separated them, he saw shock in her gaze. Was that guilt he saw in her sienna eyes—or was his mind playing tricks on him?

Then she stood and he realized what she was wearing. He swallowed and felt his weak and traitorous body harden with interest. Just then she looked up and Temple knew…

Questions nipped at the corners of Constance’s mind. Had Temple followed her? She had not wanted to believe the whispers she heard in the hallways of Dandridge, but seeing him standing on the rocky ledge above her brought doubt cresting through her mind. Was Temple willing to steal another digger’s finds rather than work for his own?

Her breath caught in her throat.

Could he? Would he? She didn’t want to believe it. But what other explanation could there be?

While she stood staring at him her stomach twisted into a hard knot. But as if God himself had tired of the silent argument going on inside her heart, the heavens cracked like a teamster’s whip. Heavy droplets pelted her hat and shoulders, soaking deep into her father’s purloined shirt and trousers. She had no more time to worry about Temple or his motives as she scrambled up the steep and difficult path toward her tent.

Rain soaked her clothing and plastered the fabric to her skin. Her boots slipped and several times she lost purchase in the slick muddying earth. Her feet became heavy with the dusty-gray muck and only through dogged determination, sometimes by more crawling than
climbing the incline, Constance finally stood at the mouth of her tent.

The canvas ties were already soaked, making the knots nearly impossible to undo. Her fingers were cold and her hat brim had collapsed from the weight of the rain. Rivulets ran over her spectacles and down her cheeks, blinding her.

“Let me do it.” Temple’s deep voice rumbled behind her. She spun around and found him no more than a hand’s span from her, glaring so fiercely that for a moment she wondered if his stormy expression had brought the torrent.

“I—I can—manage,” she stammered.

“Yes, I know how capable you are, Connie. I concede that you are the most capable woman alive. Now kindly move aside and let me do this before you catch your death of cold.”

His sensible words penetrated her suspicions about why he was here. She jerkily nodded her approval and moved half a step.

She stood there dripping like a wet mop. Because of the gray torrent, all she could see was Temple’s wide shoulders. His clothing was wetter than her own, if that was possible. The pale collarless shirt clung to his skin, so translucent from the water it nearly disappeared against the lean expanse of his back. She was reminded of his swim and the way his magnificent bare body had glistened in the sunshine. She swallowed hard and looked away into the gray veil of rain.

“There, now get inside and change those clothes.” Temple stood aside and gestured toward the dry shadowy confines of the tent.

“Aren’t—you c-c-coming?” Connie was shivering from head to toe.

Lines of tension bracketed his lean mouth as he stared at her. “No.”

“You c-can’t be s-s-serious.”

“I brought my bedroll. This won’t last long, I’ll find a sheltered overhang down there somewhere.” He inclined his head toward the canyon and told himself he had been a prize fool to have left his slicker at the other camp.

Constance was unable to stop staring into the deep agate depths of his eyes. He was a lodestone and she the iron—unable to resist his magnetic allure.

“Temple…” Constance felt herself swaying toward him as if in a dream. Her body had no strength—no substance.

He narrowed his eyes. His fierce gaze flicked to her mouth and back again. A low growl seemed to bubble up from inside him, and then miraculously, his hard arms were around her.

The heady masculine taste of his lips mingled with that of the sweet spring rain. Sensation jolted through Constance, causing her to wonder if she might have been hit by a bolt of lightning, but then Temple broke the kiss. He held her away from him and she knew that the frisson of heat blazing through her trunk and limbs was caused only by his searing kiss.

“Connie—just—get inside.” His voice was husky and low. The sound of it sent a new set of chills skipping up her arms.

“I—I will—if you—c-come inside.” She blinked and pushed her rain-dotted lenses up on her nose, but they were no barrier against the licking heat caused by Temple’s stare.

Constance swallowed hard and turned. Only then,
when she looked down at her damp hands, did she realize that she was shaking like a leaf.

She stepped inside the dark tent and made her way toward her bed as a finger of lightning drew a jagged line across the sky. She grabbed a blanket off the narrow cot and tossed it to Temple as the lightning died and darkness engulfed them. A muffled curse brought her spinning around just as a rumble of thunder shook the earth beneath their feet.

Another flash of blue-white illuminated the shelter. For half a heartbeat she was once again able to see her surroundings clearly. The blanket had landed squarely across Temple’s nose, mouth and shoulders. His brown eyes blazed above the material like bronze fires. His hat was askew on his head, allowing droplets of water that had been caught in the brim to trickle down into the front of his shirt.